I’m shunned by the sun and hated by the wind.

I’m gifted a cyclone and hurled through a twister.

I’m auty. I’m a spy. I smell musky. I lack empathy.

I’m feeling self-righteous. I dance like Saint Vitus.

I’m vituperation. I’m sick, I’m wicked, I wear Dior.

I use every creed. I get out my toxic mixers and feed.

I’m cramming my gob like a yob, but I talk elite.

I wipe my face, and it comes off in my hands.

I stutter and mutter, and I bite my tongue in witness.

I think it tastes yum, but I know that that’s dumb.

I’m asking me to say sorry for causing so much worry.

I’m going to euphemism my way to the peak of fitness.

I’m a signature hairstyle. I’m a redundant memory.

I’m going to surrender fortune for a shot at the title.

I’m going to make it to shore, and then look for a door.

I’m going to climb inside the left nostril of a stoned idol.