Кто догадается, что такого особенного в стихе, тот молодец.
Demetri Martin "Dammit i'm mad"
Dammit I’m mad.
Evil is a deed as I live.
God, am I reviled? I rise, my bed on a sun, I melt.
To be not one man emanating is sad. I piss. Alas, it is so late.
Who stops to help?
Man, it is hot. I’m in it. I tell. I am not a devil.
I level “Mad Dog”.
Ah, say burning is, as a deified gulp,
In my halo of a mired rum tin. I erase many men.
Oh, to be man, a sin. Is evil in a clam?
In a trap? No. It is open. On it I was stuck.
Rats peed on hope. Elsewhere dips a web.
Be still if I fill its ebb. Ew, a spider… eh? We sleep.
Oh no! Deep, stark cuts saw it in one position.
Part animal, can I live? Sin is a name.
Both, one… my names are in it. Murder? I’m a fool.
A hymn I plug, deified as a sign in ruby ash,
A Goddam level I lived at. On mail let it in. I’m it.
Oh, sit in ample hot spots.
Oh wet! A loss it is alas (sip). I’d assign it a name.
Name not one bottle minus an ode by me:
“Sir, I deliver. I’m a dog”
Evil is a deed as I live.
Dammit I’m mad.