To Percy, light upon his waterbed.
I’m the Scorpion King.
Beware,
not the Camel King,
nor, albeit my rattling ways,
a snakish one.
My reign is a desolate wasteland
which I, myself, have created.
Where dumb-dumb Ozymandiases rust.
Where mythologies go to die
like an, oh so secretive, fart.
Far away enough of people so
they can pass quietly and unheard.
My reign is also of venom:
purulent, vicious.
Highly alcoholic melancholy,
not of lethargic rest but instead
breeder of anxious sleep,
of bad poetry during late hours
best served for onanistic endeavors.
Beware,
not the Camel King,
nor, albeit my rattling ways,
a snakish one.
My reign is a desolate wasteland
which I, myself, have created.
Where dumb-dumb Ozymandiases rust.
Where mythologies go to die
like an, oh so secretive, fart.
Far away enough of people so
they can pass quietly and unheard.
My reign is also of venom:
purulent, vicious.
Highly alcoholic melancholy,
not of lethargic rest but instead
breeder of anxious sleep,
of bad poetry during late hours
best served for onanistic endeavors.
¡Behold the Scorpion King!
¡Behold my drunkenness, ye mighty,
and compare:
the width of your temples
to the size of my ding-dong!
Only one of them remains.
Funny looking scorpion tail
amidst ass
and belly-button,
and hair.
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