I've read the cliff notes to Dorian Gray,
and for me, it's never worked that way.
As goes my body, so goes my mind.
I have no potential for beauty, but there was a time
When handsome wouldn't have been out of reach,
Though at the time I was wan and weak,
and now my mind and I grow fat and useless,
and that potential, I'm sure, is gone.
It feels like I've been driving my rattling,
Fall-apart self around drunk, for ten years,
Borrowing time until my elbow slips
and accidentally reverses my gear-shift
and then it's "oh shit, he just dropped a small intestine."
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