Nice slacks!

every time we lunch,
become brainiacs –
I didn’t say tongue because why say
got-‘em-back, or "Hey, nice slacks!"

(or "Shark attack!" so suck on that)

I’m outta town; I’m out of whack
when the stones look at me, they crack.

Snack on worms and pelicans. Warm me
with your "Them. It was not us but
Them."

The oldest level game
growing at your ear like something fear
some

thinking DNA has already written every
curve of every body of every religion let us fly
on into the wilderness of this crazy religion fever
flying red, flying green, every color but the color of dungaree
(blue lives those lives because of me!)

so just please believe me and let it be
we are becoming dangerous already. Please respect
the way I communicate. Please
believe in cinnamon; it is a flavor
uxorious to the point of
being the last "U" in the dictionary and a word which means
"someone like George Bush, who expresses excessive love
fer theyrrrrrrrrrrrre wiiife, Nancy!"

(what a boondoggle, dictionary friends!)

A flavor like love-me-in-specific-winter-situations way
that says: i'll bring you a Red Stripe and we'll watch
the United States Ski Team tank the other assholes
in the Winter Olympics, sponsored by CocaCola
and brought to you by
Sagittarius sex symbols
everywhere!