Scapegoat's Agony

If I were to ever smoke, The kind of man I am; I would carry matches. There is something about the flick. It has a certain dexterity; A notion of prolonging With a sense of urgency A sudden neck tilt, After a precisely placed lick. It is a scapegoat’s agony. Take it from me The most foolproof way To objectify a woman, And be sure; Is to observe Her knees. The place where her knees Meet her thighs And her shin. If that to you Is aesthetically pleasing The rest of her Will be just sublime. Boom. I said it. I have been asked Ever so often That how I who had been nurtured Under a fold Should descend To such crude, Vulgar Depraved Realistic little means of expression. My nugget of insight, Life sucks. My life sucks more than most. It’s not as bad as some. That in itself Is depressing; The mediocrity of it. Banality; it’s a vicious little shit-show. But it’s a causality. I got one thing. I wouldn’t have played A game Of cat and mouse With my own sociability, Unless I had something, Anything; That one thing That keeps me south Of normal. I want you to recognise this. I am your pimp. I am your whore. I am all of your tricks Being played back at you. I am the scapegoat And this is My agony; A ballad.