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[A.K.A.T.D.N.]

Sitting wasted and wounded expecting nothing but a touch,
From that wounded kind we call our opposite sex for much,
Like salt in the wounds rubbed and cleansed without
What it means to be her rear end of things and rough worn.
My shorts aren't complet witout something to see, or wear
SO calloused is here and my despair I could
Wear any longjon thoughout the day belittling this chair,
And scoot on over t o a motobike to make myself feel more near
THen a jon, where all is marble and stone, not moving exept my eyes
FOr a count of something like numbers nobkout in surprise
Suppose TS is out there, and WOmbat, makling their move
THeir saddles grooved by a woman's long legs reaching
THe numbers no one can count bu he notch in their guns.