I’m not in pictures that your parents took
I’m not described in your stack of holy books

I wasn’t born in your seven days
I’m not the monster your fathers made
Can’t break my bones if you can’t pronounce my name

I’ll elude what your top thinkers might conceive
Your “wanted” sketch doesn’t resemble me

I wasn’t born in your family tree
I don’t want blood or your charity
You won’t believe that your maker thought up me
 [bad word] cold is my trojan horse defeat
And my fine cuisine is your world catastrophe

I might be dormant on your ocean floor
Or in the margins of error you ignore

You can’t survive in the class of air I breathe