It’s a perfect fit. Like a left handed Koran scriber,
You and me. It’s a must now. It was a must then,
Bits of Smurfette’s tit, swiftly drifting down the Tiber,
Azrael got to the blue blonde. Gargamel’s an Etruscan,
Whether it’s miniscule mushroom huts, Romulus and aqueducts,
I’d elect you over Hanna-Barbera Saturdays wearing a toga,
Even plunking quarters, ducking ghosts, increasing Pacman’s luck.
It’s like I’m the Pro-Bowl and you’re home, ‘cause your Al Noga.
In other words, you’re the best and child hood nor Herodutus can claim it,
My blood spewer, tonight, beats murmur-free, wild with love
No stool, whip, or mustached man can tame it.
There isn't a mission. There isn't a goal. It's just words on fake paper, sliding and tripping and flowing all over the place, because we're all full up on words in here and there is no way we can keep them inside. Like Tony says, "Nothing in here is true."
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment