The stars weep for my socks and I tell them to stop shoving,
because this bed is crowded enough as it is.
The tennis racket in my mind is woven with old spaghetti;
a waste of old spaghetti;
the stars weep for this spaghetti and I yell at them to shut up.
This dead friend is a man who is my mother,
but my mother is alive and well.
It is my friend's anniversary, and so I must buy her a Sprite.
Ahh, Sprite, nectar of the Gods:
a drink to serve with spaghetti.
The stars weep crystal sprite tears that soak me in a halo of spaghetti.
I am alone in this overcrowded bed,
because I am not a star, and I do not eat
spaghetti.
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