Till it hasn’t burnt down your moral edifice, your well cultivated prudency,
and every guarded lie you hide behind,
And stumped you like a deer in the headlight,
Till it hasn’t mangled up your entrails from within,
day after day, night after night,
Cell by cell, vein by vein,
Like an incurable disease,
Till it hasn’t kicked your balls,
knocked off a couple of your front row teeth,
And left you bleeding,
Like after a bare knuckle fight with a prize fighter,
half your age and twice your weight,
Don’t claim that you understand
jack about poetry,
you punk!
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