Four O'clock Buzz

Hang the phone up drunk-man.
The lines you say makeno sense, swiggling
through the wires, smelling, reeking of Mr. Smirnoff.
Can't you see this trail you have
madegroping the last right of spring?
Just another night of leaving me all torn
and you lie in your waste.Tip
over drunk-man and letthe feeling take control.

Your smoke wandering in,
making a comfy seatwhile
you coast along

anotherfun ride.
Can't you tell the earth isspinning?
The world has been swept upand we are
being thrown in the darkspace
that is filled with
uglysurprises.
Let it be drunk-man. Tell your story
to the young posers
who feel the need to devour.
Brace your feet once more
and releasethe demons that
feel you up, pregnantmy soul.

The dance has begun a new leaf,
a new time to show that you can fly.
Drunk-man say your prayers
that never reach the high.
Can't you get
highenough to touch
the nipples of the plain-coat lover?
Suck the lifeand spoil the rest of the
story line.
Bend over drunk-man and letme wish you
goodnight, good ridings.
You are the last of your kind.
A true original.

(2/99)