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HARSH WORDS |
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by Charles Carreon Out here, running with the herd, Life and death, It's a daily thing. Beauty passes in a season -- The long-legged lovely one Becomes the encumbered mare, Hindered by love of young, Unable to run wild in the sunset.
Sex has its terrifying side; The steaming pain of birth, And the duty to care for some Repulsive hairless thing that Only cries and shits and speaks nothing. No wonder babies are killed though I'm not condoning that sort of thing, It's just your mother's voice That says it's cute, how lovely, Oh, it needs a change.
Out here with the herd It's a question of dominance, And who has the means to make it stick. Losers can cry, but "to him that hath," more is given, and to that Poor sucker that's got not, There's nothin' due -- You can take it to the bank.
If you're weak, throw in with someone strong; if you're stupid, Follow someone with brains; if you're A coward, serve someone brave. Then at least when night falls There'll be some campfire where You are welcome, some pot where You can stick your spoon.
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