I am like him.

On the balcony, on a slipper, on the mayonnaise, A pink sawed-off shotgun flew in from somewhere. It said "Hello," but I wasn't pleased; After that, I found satisfaction in sorrow. Black and white hairs were growing there, Watered by compote from the stove's emptiness. I put a frying-pan shield on my head; Micro-vegetable food doesn't whet the appetite. After the asphalt came a derivative salt; They called it sad because it was a clone. I told it: "Don't cry, take these socks"— They had emerged from the tap two days ago. I liked the locals; They said "Well done," but I couldn't pull it off. Meanwhile, I had thought about this in the past— The thing sold for a sack of crows. All in all, things got tangled, nothing is right; A talking shoe lives in the fridge. I'll go hang myself... no, just kidding—I'll go to sleep, For I am a creature of the couch, and I love everyone.