get bandied about

For all one knows, there’s not a whatfor
(where and why fore)
For them chantry chorals
In the post-modern wreckage
Of a tuneless manufactured girl
Are we just rusting robots
And has liberty lapsed
Into a self-regulating onus of bullshit
I’ll tolerate your sciloism
In those prescribed curtsies
But don’t reach for me
When you’re forced to be real
It’s better that I don’t
See your everything
Leave that up to my extended
Middle finger, telling you what to do


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