It's not beautiful, Like it should be It's not kind, or considerate Or bright Or happy. An unopened door, Crevice; Venting all distilling distractions, Josling, And smelling all the smells that shouldn't be smellt. It relishes in this: The fact that it's breathing and crawling. Oh, it is unnecesary, that, oh, it is. Oh how avoidable, how avoidable - But cruxed, It should be a crime But it crawls, it crawls And crawls And crawls. Walking is reserved for those with walking sticks We like to watch it crawl, We understand, because we feel our skin crawl when we watch it crawl. We crooked the stick it could have craved - caved it in, to let us see it crawl, and crawl, and make us think that we remember what it was to crawl.
I was with you until the end of the sixth line and then I don't know where the hell I went. I might charge you with poetical homicide.
