With hair pulled out in frustration   And fingernails chewed off in worry   With the scabs off the wounds that festered   While you wouldn’t admit that they were there      With the bile from your heart   Blood from your eye   You filled the jelly mold of doom   I smiled blank when you brought it in the room      With razor bladed apples   Grown from seeds of discontent   With chips off shoulders and tips of tongues   Off the top of your head, from the pit of your stomach      With the stuff you got off your chest   When you spilled out your guts   You filled the jelly mold of doom   Under ominous waxed paper it sits out in my room      I guess I should it with the curried favor   We’re having for dinner again   Make sure you save some room   The fruits of your labor and humble pie for desert   Bitter sour grapes of wrath   A piece of your mind, a taste of your own medicine   Not a bowl of cherries, a different can of worms   A whole other kettle of fish   Put a lid on it, would you?