Do not, bite the hand that feeds you.
But that hand is feeding me poison.
Don't bite it, you tell me?
That's the hand that's holding me back.
From the outside it looks nice and flat.
But one the inside it's coming down with a smack.
Don't bite it, you say?
But it's hurting me, I promise.
Are you listening?
Do you even hear?
You claim to listen and to care.
Yet I doubt my words are even going in one ear and out the other.
My voice isn't penetrating to you. is it?!
That wretched hand that I shall not bite.
It's killing me. It's Killing Me! IT'S KILLING ME!
With every bite.
Every mouthful I take.
Brings me closer to my grave.
My Grave!
Do you hear me?
Are you listening?
Do not bite the hand that feeds you.
Don't worry. I wont.
Though it feeds me poison.
Though it holds me back.
It gives me the thing I utterly lack.
So I clutch on and ween.
To the thing that's killing me.
Because I've taken note, and I've noticed.
The hand that's feeding me poison.
The one I am not to bite.
Isat least paying attention to me.
Which is all I've ever asked.
