Jog man: Volume two

The man who jogs
He sat for a while
He pondered and wandered
About how his life
About how his wife
Was sold for a dream

The man who collects stamps
He left for the states
Left him in ruin
And left him in chains

For now he had a job
A job slicing meat
The man who jogs
Now stands near the line
He chops at the tenders
He thinks of his wife

And one fated day
That man with the stamps
Came by his butchery debauchery
And whispered in his ear
This fated verse

'You cannot jog from what
Ails you in time,
I can only send you
This endearing rhyme

You work for the meatman
You sell off your soul
My bars do come swiftly
My tongue, they do roll

Our love was for real
My heart you did take
Imagine how much money
My rapping could make

Good luck with your slicing
My condolences too
Drive up on my lambo
Their rhymes will not do.'

Jog man: volume one

 

He ran and ran, none could stop him
A jogging prodigy, a man
With with a lung span so great it's
Said that he could race from the
Sickle moon and back and still keep face

He runs because the world runs at a 
Measureless pace- It really quite stuns
Me to think about how fast he might run
If the world would collapse and the 
Universe would disperse 

I talk of the man who jogs
As if he is some sort of diety
That he lives and dies by the draw of the breath
But truly the only thing godlike is
His devotion to fleeing his past

He was a normal boy who grew to 
Be a normal man
But normal things did not
Happen to this normal man

He had a friend who I shall call
The man who collects stamps
For he was undoubtably 
A person who collected postage
And also a man

The man who collects stamps lived on 
The street that collects leaves and 
The two men would go to each other's houses
And talk and drink and dance
For without a doubt the two of them
Kissed like they did in France

Both- the two- had wives
That trampled in on their lives
They wanted to live a 
Matchbox romance
But their partners 
Cut them with knives

They would sneak out at night 
To catch the movies when
Their wives had to clean the dishes
But before they knew it 
and
Against their best wishes 
they
Knew that their partners 
must 
Sleep with the fishes

It was the wretched idea
Of the man who collects postage
That the sky was a storm and
Perfection was in sight
A world where hiding and 
Biding your time would 
Not be the norm

The man who jogs went
Along with the plan
But not without trepidation
For what was a man without his dear wife
But
A man without a maid

So he grabbed for the knife that the 
Wife was chopping with
And shoved it down 
14 inches into her windpipe

A real bloody mess the 
Whole ordeal was
All for an open relationship
An intensive cleaning job

The man who collects stamps
Continued chopping the onion
With the same bloody knife 
That skewered the cook

A wonderful dinner he 
Made for them all
Corpse and two lovers
Though his curfew was nine
For he still had a woman 
The love of his life

So he made suit
An returned home to the 
Woman of the house
She was making breakfast for dinner
He figured he'd help
He bashed her head into the pan
Making a nice nutritous breakfast
Love pancakes