Get Lost

You slink into my words like a stray dog sniffing garbage, barking your nonsense, then whimper off claiming you never gave a damn, never poked the hornet's nest. You're that barroom brawler, all swagger and cheap whiskey breath, throwing the first wild punch, then when the blood's on your shirt and the crowd's closing in, you slur out, "Hey, I ain't here for no trouble, just minding my own." What kind of rotten boil festers in that skull of yours, bubbling up this idiot steam? Some foul lump of ego, pickled in bad decisions and yesterday's regrets, pushing you to stir the pot till it boils over on your own lap.I say, shovel down a heaping trough of that greasy, gut-wrenching slop—beans soaked in bile, peppers that burn like forgotten lovers' lies, meat chunks gone sour under a neon light. Let it churn in your belly, twist your insides like a hangover dawn, and purge that stinking rot from your veins. Flush it all out, the stupidity, the cowardice, the half-assed fire that fizzles to smoke. Maybe then you'll crawl back to whatever dim hole you call home, nursing your wounds, and leave the real fighters to their peace. Or hell, keep coming—I'll be here, glass in hand, ready for the next sorry round.