She traveled across the sea of pussies

To get to her position

Poised on the mountain of corporate clitoris

My head writer tells me she hates my hometown

As the last resort to get me to reply my way toward sacking

She wears a stupid baseball cap

Indoors, plus she's illiterate

Her tongue is only effective when paired with pussy

Yet she uses it to demean me, angry

When I don't feel or look demeaned

Pancakes her every breakfast, and if we stay overtime

Her every supper

Yet she's not a mare

I'm not envious

I'm not looking to get her money power and pussy

She can have it all

And admittedly, she deserves more pussy than me

This poem is written at work

Lazy and uninspiring, head writer's writing

Charisma overflowed into it

If only it could have been written

In the presence of her pussy handling

Have you ever seen those glitchy bugs that move around like eerie idiots

I'm in a 400-tabs state of mind

I feel like going headless in France

So I ask the image generator

What did Muhammad really look like

But it gives me 9 of them

And when I ask which one is the prophet

It gives me some Koran scribbles

That I don't understand but instead ask

To see 56-year-old Muhammad with

7-year-old Aisha, courtship in Mecca

You see, I should be studying

Or working

Yet I can't, for I'm waiting to get beheaded

But the only punishment I get is acid

I cough myself to sleep

Sometimes I envy tourists, those retards

How they don't mind

A bit of rain, too much sun

They're more likely to get killed

But also

More likely to have fun