Oink'ka Doodle Do

There is no room left for me. Over the edge of the trough where it spilled. And even now, in it up to our necks we still are and vomit and shit fill the trough. Winter comes and cover's me up, it is harsh. The wind when it's slicing and cutting, is made harsher still. Coming back, back to the scene of the crime guilty are all, here whom still are. And in spite of it all life goes on. Pity not those whom sit high in judgement of, floating above all the rest. Shedding therein no tears for and eye's that have closed on the way I could never know. Many are the hand's that reach up, to the low hanging fruit that hangs up. Fruit that is heavy, soft firm, young and fresh, fruit that you swore you'd not grow. Is there time still for me to sell out?