confessions

circling rumors are discussed
of scandals, vices, tales of lust
and Barb'ra Walters bit the dust
before she ever gained my trust

so welcome round, you paparazzi
listen to my repartee --
my fault is this: I cannot see
one thing that's wrong with good ol' me

these imperfections that you claim
are problems simply fan my flame
my fans will cheer and fuel my fame
each time you point at me and blame

I love to lay in bed and mock
while rival poets squeal and squawk
I watch them drowning from my dock
while stroking on my ten-inch cock

each time that I procrastinate
provides more time to procreate
each kid I spawn helps liquidate
the budget of the welfare state

my farts smell like a rose's dew
my boogers taste like fine fondue
my poo's a tasty vindaloo
for shit sharks swimming down the loo

each thing they claim is bad is good
my line of work's misunderstood
cocaine boosts business in the hood
while meth maintains my morning wood

someday from sinning I might die
before I've drained Ma's tear ducts dry
which may provide an alibi
to kiss my creditors goodbye