Guts

I don't want to write about Armageddon
It's becoming boring already
Like chicken soup seven days in a row
Like guts with oil
No one asked me for my opinion
Whether to get born or not
But they say you can love
Being mortal
On my table there is no fate
Of The World
There is just a laptop
A phone and some tobacco
Most of my propriety
I am not rich
I don't want to write about Armageddon
It's becoming boring already