This is the song that I sing to my father. This is the song that I sing when he's gone. Oh, the flesh that you've left to wither, brought as a gift. I can't feel my legs, my meds, or my baby muscles. The excess is lifeless, except for when I get fed. It's the twitch and the itch that are present that help the fat to grow. Grow unnecessarily. Your throne is cold and broke. Broke but has wheels that are spinning and gets me where I need to go. The soft touch of your pick-up is what puts holes in my nose. The blood runs. The blood never ends. This is the song that I sing to my father. This is the song that I sing when he's gone. He'll be gone when he finds that there's no other. He'll be gone and I'll be singing this song.