Wanton crayon crimes christen hallowed books
Left about to make an impression
to go well with the curtains;
torturing the prize Siamese
just to hear its quirky hiss.
The smell of burning hair
that will be you one day.
This day, all day, every day,
but not forever.
One day you get yours
From the Orc
On level Chesil
I’m 54 years old now and the critics say
My stuff is getting sicker than ever.
As I often explain to the half-starved wretch
Who does most of my writing
Do not eat the stuff, just chew it over and
And spit it out.
The irregular beatings help sometimes, but the diet of
Wild Turkey and rabid Milfs are gobbling him
Up apace. Like the critics, they swipe the chintz curtains
For their condos.
Still life in the slum is regular now I got the pacemaker
(you can pick one up pretty cheap since the Diamond
League finished).
What is better than a BLT? I hear you ask.
Two.
Grimbeau 