Lateweek Monday
Hearty bowl of pot, got me wired-
a good ol' Hoover boy, just like
my father.
Listening to god pray I ignite
a jay and I say, "Pal, this old
dirty shit's alright,"
brush crumbs and ash into
a little bit of paper and
count victim tallies of
famed murder's - the sort
journalists profile in paperback.
A real american son, queer
as an earned dollar bill.
The eye on the pyramid
would smile upon thee
if that were it's will. But some duck's
haven't even flown south yet,
i'm too far away to see them off,
so ride up by our old
place and sit where
we used to. I got
pigeons year round here to tend to.
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