The song I sing
and the tubs fill with jam
to bathe-in.
And the cockroach is
so ashamed, he wears a mask.
And the battle is
so overdone that it never
starts.

Hemingway once said,
"A Man's Dick
is his own, salty creation."
Oh wait, no he didn't ...

The songs we sing
don't even rhyme.
Just clatter on together
while we dance on each other.

These days we speed to work
and eat everything like drugs.
The scent of normality
stifles
any chance
of anything.
No one sees the calendar's teeth
sponsoring death to our next day
like a turbine handshake
that spits children into rags.
Why don't we grab the bait and run like hell?
Let's ride our donkeys through the grocery
and continue on forever.

La la la
The song I sing

will put me away.
Against a pointless
century, I will degenerate.
And watch our love shine
like a paper-product.
And tap our feet
to overpriced patriotism.
Please,
send me the bill.


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