Dragged from under a rock, I finally learned to talk. Eaten by the river in his underwear, chalk river radiation or abnormal solar flare. Crow pizza parties for the doughty and the hearty, we're lucky to have roadkill, times are tough, don't be a buzzkill, don't make me get rough. Sign your union card, get your brother Marty too, he's only twenty-one, he can work for thirty or thirty-five years until his back is done.
I was away at the beach when I found out about the quake. The sand shifted, dunes by the dozen and so it was the same. The roads were all wrecked through, my Bug fell in a pothole, flushed by the tidal wave, just another Tuesday in the Maldives, an underwater Atlantis with downgraded credit rating, a small island paradise with a minor plague of race-baiting, work-hating, subsidy generating, midnight gyrating sugar-daddy-babies, ladies looking for young lambs with rich wool scarves, tarted up trollops with coco scented arms, fixing gyroscopes to throw their silken poison darts.
Mellow my memories, chilled in the fridge, time slows down when you stare at a crib, the orbit doesn't budge, not even an inch. (I miss that veal sandwich at Keele just south of Finch). We got a big dumb leader you just have to see. He can't read. It's obscene; you won't believe what we've elected, I think it's 1933.
What do we do in the face of such ooze? We don't huff the glue. We got to unpack the boxes. We got to tear down the drywalls, save what we can use. We got to live, me and you, and to do we got to move.
I was away at the beach when I found out about the quake. The sand shifted, dunes by the dozen and so it was the same. The roads were all wrecked through, my Bug fell in a pothole, flushed by the tidal wave, just another Tuesday in the Maldives, an underwater Atlantis with downgraded credit rating, a small island paradise with a minor plague of race-baiting, work-hating, subsidy generating, midnight gyrating sugar-daddy-babies, ladies looking for young lambs with rich wool scarves, tarted up trollops with coco scented arms, fixing gyroscopes to throw their silken poison darts.
Mellow my memories, chilled in the fridge, time slows down when you stare at a crib, the orbit doesn't budge, not even an inch. (I miss that veal sandwich at Keele just south of Finch). We got a big dumb leader you just have to see. He can't read. It's obscene; you won't believe what we've elected, I think it's 1933.
What do we do in the face of such ooze? We don't huff the glue. We got to unpack the boxes. We got to tear down the drywalls, save what we can use. We got to live, me and you, and to do we got to move.
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