Covered and bent do I spend my days
Long enough to make the devil pale.
Kafkaesque? I'd say Lovecraftian, in a way.
For this life turns bitter to bland
In an ether of sheets, but when I land
I place a great abomination in someone else's hand.
Then, the burbling mirth bubbles up out of me,
Laughing at that other poor bastard
Who has to read a hundred and thirty seven of those things.
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