There’s a lump in daddy’s throat where all the money goes. It’s so enlarged I’ve felt obliged to wear concealing clothes. And iodine would keep it fine, but that luxury’s not mine, so they give me all these pills, and I can’t swallow those.
My rep is lined with strep; I’ve been quarantined. My adam’s apple’s outlasted its warranty, and it’s bobbing in the tub, an irreparable flub of my heretofore untested biochemistry.
And the goiter in my throat will make it hard for me to cope. And it’s hard enough, considering I’ve lost all scope.
All these nodules on my module may asphyxiate, but inflammatory statements only escalate. And they’re growing so diffuse, soon they’ll fall into disuse, as I will not speak for fear that I might suffocate.
I’ve made a choice to throw my voice so it can carry me to the field beyond these hills where they’ll bury me. And if I don’t arrive, they’ll assume I’m still alive, and they’ll curse me for behaving so contrarily.
And the goiter in my throat will make it hard for me to cope. And I’d hang it up, but it would break right through the rope.
Daily Hey Magic Number: 96