one night in hoboken i
find myself bored after having been to
heaven and back so decide
spoken word is the way forward and
talk about burning fireants off
of jon's asshole, try to trade
sarah for pot...fail. come and
have a go if you think you're
hard enough. i can't play music when
i'm feeling sociable or randy...uh oh
here come the feds so
you're not listening at all...oblivious.
will some poetry get your attention dear kenny?
didn't think so.
how about if i told you king arthur
wore rico's merkin?
hey this narrative thing is okay,
so far sub dominant...excuse me
a moment while i watch tom and jon
try to work things out. sometimes tom
feels like
a pleasured kitchen,
or a ramblin' man
and sometimes an insignificant orifice.
but this is the end
...although i still feel like a little chat,
even if it's low quality.
you won't catch me bellyaching
...no maam, sir i'm grateful for everything
even silly cowboy songs by
out of control romantic heroes,
dark princes cursing on and on
until you wish it would all end
this techno hell but it's not all that bad
now we have the bomb so please go home
and sleep peacefully my
little lambcutlets
love, me