I am a shell full of worms,
A casing filled with maggots.
A rolling ball of shit,
Picking up flotsam
As I race downhill.

What kinds of possibilities are there,
For a stinky tired rolling ball
Of flotsam and shit?

Who employs him?
Who sleeps next to him at night?
Who wants to have ten thousand of his babies?
Who gives him that special litle fluttering at the core of the flotsam and shit?
Who gives himthe comforting tap he needs?
Who will keep this crusted ancient flotsam and shit?

Decay is not an option.