The Lump

He exists within this tedious space of nicotine saturated woodchip

Year after Year he watched the crumbling paint spin

Drunken flakes within the cobwebbed smeared shadowed corners

Trebus like structures intended to comfort him

The stench of stale beer tainted idleness discharges musty

Freed from the back of the Lumps mucus infected hole

This place the Lump once called home

Soon to stand silent witness to the Lumps valueless soul

His obscene enormity now hangs limp

It spills greasy beyond the weary conjoined chair

 Free will forced this life of Indulgence upon him

A worthless journey the Lump lived life without a care

He pointlessly measured the passage of time

By the festering mounds of twisted crippled mildewed tin

 Life would never have made sense to this so called man

Do not pity him, do not mourn as the reaper drags him in

This lump, this inflammation, this decaying dishevelled feckless man

Fleeting dreams have now been finally, rightfully denied

His life “LIVED” a urine soaked floorboard from once it began

This House, This House, This Cold and Lonely House

He Cries out  as his final thrusting gasp sends the Lumps soul

Uncontested to its deserved, forsaken abyss.