When they show me the inkblots <br />I like to pretend I don't recognize them. <br />I think it pisses 'em off, but it's the only way <br />to get my jollys here. <br />Not give 'em too much power. <br />Yeah. <br />That way they'll never be able to take away my soul. <br />The one that looks like a vagina? <br />I tell 'em looks like a butterfly. <br />I tell 'em they all look like butterflies when <br />we both know there ain't no butterflies left <br />on this here earth. <br />They all flew away through that <br />big hole in the the North Pole <br />to be with God in heaven. <br />One of the inkblots came alive <br />on the paper while they were testing me, <br />but I wouldn't say a thing. <br />I tried to tell 'em once that the prepaid <br />turns on the t.v. in my room and they hurt me. <br />I won't be making that same mistake twice. <br />For breakfast every morning we get powdered eggs. <br />I wish I knew the bloke who invented powdered eggs. <br />I'd ask him what they're really made of. <br />When I lived in Devon I worked on a chicken farm. <br />They'd keep the lights on night and day to <br />keep the hens a-layin', <br />so there's lots and lots of eggs and <br />no need for make believe eggs. <br />I slather 'em with ketchup remembering <br />delicious steaks I use to make with <br />fried onions before I came here. <br />And gravy too. <br />The blood…it never needed a lick a salt for flavoring. <br />I guess I'll just stay here until <br />the butterflies metamorphasize and come back home. <br /> <br />Written by Sara Fielder © Apr 2012<br /><br />Sara Fielder<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/finnan/
