Arthur writes song after song, each written in vain
explaining that the body is only a figment,
Man: A manifestation of the mind to explain through cones
The truth: that beings are composed of pure will.
Sitting in solitary,
mind slowly losing mass, gaining surface area,
Friedrich realizes that he has lost all that he
once depended on,
so he lays down a sick beat for the lyrics with his
rattling skull against the soft wall.
Sigmund sits calm and collected,
plucking the strings on his electric guitar with
a sensual ferocity that would make every
little boy’s mother believe in the oedipus complex.
Don’t blame him,
It’s not him, it’s his Ego.
Little Spud In The Big Apple 