(to "doing the cockroach", modest mou.)

[huckleberrygin]

pressin' his insides, out through the front,
Eyes rollin' round like two red lumps,
Give him a minute he'll be ok,
As long as you try to watch what you say,
Nothing to nice, and nothing to mean,
Perfectly moderate is the thing he needs,
Shut his mind off, hopin' it sleeps
Back from the back, tears being to sneak
Fillin his eyelids, making him weak
Walking away as frustration peaks,
Staring back in-to what he sees
Saying "this man surely isn't me"
But knowing meanwhile that it is
Feelings look familiar, since they are his
Swallowing knots, and brushin away
Things he wishes there were words to say.
Returning to duties from which came
Whose fault is it when there's no one to blame.

(Oh work, you make me want to combust.)