The squiggled squaggle punched out his rhythmic rhyme as he laid his heart on the page. Later to discover to his demise that the rhythmic rhyme was nothing more than a scribble to those that know the trade. Witty lyrics and little lines of who's who and what's what have no affect on the disheartened she *bi tch* and he man of this love lost generation.
We all know that to love is to like and to like is to be fond of, but who is fond of the followers of fallacy? While fallacy leads to grave misfortune, and as of late, fortune is found in fate, while fate is becoming more and more like fantasy to the realists and following conformists of this ego maniacal generation we all call society.
ME, ME, ME, I, I, I, resonates the anthem of the repressed drama queens, for nothing can be ignored if repeated in high pitch winy tones with that all inclusive bottom line of, "hey, freaking look at me!"
So as the story repeats, the squiggled squaggle scribbles to show that he has given up his quest of self expression, and rattling out rhythmic rhymes is only for those that like to riddle to the non responsive me machines that dominate the general public we call ourselves.
