Instruments of Citric Acid

I have fallen by the wayside. I have become downtrodden but I refuse to return from where I came. I am too proud but my fall keeps me from balancing my deeds on my shoulder. A task too easily forgotten, and one that is obviously too frightful for my tickled fancy to reveal. It is too bold and full of life to obtain a real identification of legency. It makes me cringe with utter ecstacy; it fails to hurt the fiber of my shorts; it feeds on the ceiling pellets and regurgitates the post-humus flesh into a bulbous pile of nylon excrement. The congas of my forgotten past beat my faith to a pulp.