The way up stare vacantly with your wrinkly eyes
Knowing in the back if your mind
Everything I said are obvious lies
Knowing its your money that makes me kind
Pleasuring you takes everything I have
To hold back the vomit and feel bad for myself
Stopping repeatedly for your breaks to the lav
Fumbling with your pills inside the mirror shelf
Hoping this is worth it for the money in your will
Praying I beat out your children for your cash
Thinking all it will take is just one more pill
Laughing all the way to the bank with a curtled milk mustache
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem