Guilt? Sure, my entire life's
Been an infestation of febrile
Lyrics bouncing around the inside
Of my soft cranium perambulating
In ambulances of vertiginous skies.
Shy, and without a clue (was it
Mr Mustard with a confusing poem
In the outhouse?), I venture through
Medical records the state psychiatrist
Pasted on the canary cage bottom
Bespotted with applause after
Boring bulletins of moping disgrace.
Oh sure, musclemen on high, dried
And toasty in the arms of sensational
Beauties, I flaunt nothing, and envelop
The ether with lies and such, but I do go
On, don't I? And on .... and on .... and on ....
Breakfast of chumps, bratwurst and boilermakers.
God, shoot me a mission in happy-face semaphore.
I'll be waiting the rest of my life
For one lonely snapshot
Of the ethereal conundrum
Smiling unambiguously on farm equipment
In the sweating morass of my dreams.
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