Were that I a man like you, Dutifully bound, A man of every seasoned ploy That laughs the mirror down Hell-bent for the God-like touch Of a long since crippled back, From bending over backwards To sound each martyred crack A lap dog for a fetish play, Cleansing each outfall, With a tongue of weathered, Leathered skin And a worn out wrecking ball Were that I a man like you With a fair heart on my sleeve, I'd pick up every shard of glass And for my madness grieve.