The opinions of pissants are plastered about,
putting up placards of pain and of doubt,
But he-
He purportedly places no stock in the words
of the poorly improper and pestering birds
whose passing emotions have pecked at his soul;
plastered and wasted and out of control
They run-
They pursue the perfection of nothing at all,
they pass on what’s perfect, preparing their fall.
When the positive posture of pandering whores
place at the base of the palisade doors
traps and pretenses that spew pus and bleed,
palpate the heart and push it to sea
They lose-
They capitulate, prospering never again;
they push and perplex their dependable friends.
Sympathy, pathos, and love and support
are pointless to putas of poisonous sorts
So he-
He pays no attention to pissant’s opinions.
They’re patently pointless toward his dominion.
