Regression

 

The times I have told,
the withered and old,
their smell can only be masked,
by a skunk.

The untimely demise,
of all you despise,
laid out on a golden platter.

Say what is the matter?
all green and queasy,
your eyes on your hand,
gripping and oozey.

Letting rip on them all,
ones that made you a fool,
and dragged you through the depths of hell.

Too much may I add,
for the poor old dad,
that suffered with stress,
and in turn regressed,
to the miserable sod that started it all in the first place.

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