Lawrence Money I Sing: No. 1

Given my idiotic psychiatrists and the silly state

of Victoria, that for 12 long, excruciating years

I’ve widely raised your secret messages of hate

and only been led to injection rooms by the ears,

would it matter to me if I was forever shunned?


Or could I to one remorselessly ruining my life,

a man who has prided himself on being a louse,

express myself better in a poem than with a knife

in some old, abandoned outback slaughterhouse

where, after being hung upside-down for hours

and receiving no response to his desperate cries

for help, when the sweetness of life only sours,

he could be slowly bled to death minus his eyes,

ears, nose, tongue and dick, without being stunned?

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