please porridge not
i prefer oatmeal a lot
my gripes are ripe
i throw them in the pot
i'm cooking a fine stew
made of yummy brown goo
it smells like heaven
but looks like poo
i go out on the street
the pigeons keep a beat
they bounce up and down
and i say tweet tweet tweet
i consider them my friends
tho they don't consider me
they ignore me completely
but that's the way it ought to be
i can't go on thinkin
the world owes me something
”you owe the world everything!
and you've given it almost nothing”
oh my god i'm getting lost
so back to the kitchen
i've got a porridge stew
made of science fiction
