Under the fur that covers me,
Walking a piss from pole to pole,
I sniff whatever good may be
From any random-passed asshole.
When I brush Chris’ cactus plants
I sometimes wince or cry aloud,
But for an online thug? Fat chance.
My leg is lifted, and bow-wowed.
Here in this place of dried pigs’ ears
I have attended and obeyed,
And those who menace with vague fears,
If you ask me, can go get spayed.
It matters not how vile their hate,
How lame-anonymous their troll,
I am the master of my plate:
I am the captain of my bowl.
