When I sit on decorums platform,
I feel whispering in my rusty ears,
And ringing tone hollows in my heart,
Like that of a bee buzzle sound.

Then my hands give an itching sound,
And a sticky pen to my hands fly,
Not willing to make an ants move,
Off the metacarpals I own.

It prods my soul to leave a mark,
Scribble some wirds with the sticky pen,
That negates ti leave the metacarpals I own,
Fluffing all my resisting tries.

When I sturbornly follow a goats track,
It tries to force breath out my throat,
In such a rambunctious deliquency,
More than the way death could do.

Oh!, it really hurts my clumsy throat,
And my sturborn eyes grow sorely red,
My souring lips burn and peel,
Not untill I surrender and write.

Oh!, to die a miserable way,
It was better I chise the sheepish track,
And pass thought from me to you,
And make the world a better place.