Its ironical, tyrannical,
Getting a kick out of misery,
Finding in it,
An innate beauty,
Its just on whims,
And preconceived notions,
Of how rotten the world is,
How terrible, man is.
Don't be naive now,
That's what they say to me,
Why I choose melancholy,
I believe is a mystery.
Alas, I'm a poser,
With the wits of a loser,
Who clings to nothings,
And cry for somethings.
Spare me, I'd say,
And smirk you would,
Thinking you've salvaged,
Your witty mood.
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