I Confes***it Was'Nt Me Poem by James McLain

People are no different than cows
when confessing.

They moon in the phew.

The smell of beef is not like chicken
tastefully one bites the other.

Broad is one bun, dipped into the other.

Both farm methane while depleting
the grass colored air.

Both are without sin as we are no
masters of fate.

I'm to fat to sin any more how I try.

I was once serious about faking my
death now eyes are every where.

Women draw on the wall of my cave
knowing I am a simple complex man
in a single celled world.

Your womb comforts me his staff is to
short let me stay..