Standing in a puddle with his arms tied and muzzled
He spews forth his propaganda, it is not anything uplifting
He tries to romanticize his daily drug trips
While a girl walks by and swings her hips
He whistles at her and mimics an intimate gesture
But he knows she is better off without his manure
If he were to cry, just a bit
He might become kind
He might become wise
He might become human
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