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Even finding myself in the land of pink,
Where grass is pink and air’s pinky stink
Turns you into gink and you cannot think
Of some thing which is not veiled by pinky silk,
I won’t feel myself weak from that kind of sick
That in a blink bites you with pink sting
And forces to wear pink noodles on ears
Watching at world from the broken hair-pot
With shadowed eyes which are poor disguise
For infantine minds and ridiculous odd…
Surely not! I will run as quick
As I can just to deny that pink
Which is everyone’s curse here behind the pink doors!
And what do you think?! Even absinth is pink!
The picture is bleak… Even finding myself
In the land where pink drugs are cramming the shelves
I’ll stay on my black… It’s more pleasant for me
To be told of as “goth” than a “pinky queer”…
