Intellectual
Midget Fidgets
Dead
souls rarely smile or sing
They’re
connected to the inanimate king
Metaphysics
of mud so minds the thickness of sludge
Art be
damned, destroyed by their quirked intellect of drudge
Inferiority
complexes running wild
Seeing
the world as does a chronically terrified child
Superstition
and supposition a permanent brain flood
Their
evolution stuck, their kin the savages of blood
Obsessive
compulsive is the beat of their brain
Cleaning
and washing everything down the drain
These
control freaks a study in neuroses
Tempers
simmer always ready to explode like desperate flares
Always
seeking perfection steeped in convention
Their
frustration is the world of contrary liberation
Deride
their convulsions they inflict upon mankind
The
serpent sits upon them astride, they’re tied in his bind
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