Last SupperIf food should be our final foilto shuffle off this mortal coil,come join us for our terminal mealof underdone pork and tainted vealFor hors-doo-voors, a choice of cheesesWith side effects of coughs and wheezesAnd once you're feeling sore and hoarseYou're ready for the meanest courseConsanguineous wines in gauzy glassesForgive us all our past trespassesOur repast passes gloating gazesAnd is served with condescending phrasesA serving of suspicious spaghetti.Dusted with spices and old confettiSalacious salad with messy dressingA sinister scheme is coalescingI know nowwe need a napkin.A fiendish bean dip, tang
Primary ComponentsTwo eyes, two ears, a mouth, a nose. Two arms and legs, ten fingers, toes. A brain, a heart, some lungs, a spleen. Heavy doses of caffiene.Callouses and spots of ink.Social mores are out of sync. Paint and pencil marks and things.Plastic picks for strumming strings.Dice and little metal men, monsters, freaks, and bogeymen. A bare spot where there once was hair, but now there's not a hair to spare.A sense of feeling out of place within that thing called human race. Bored with grown-up things and such. Never really grew up much.Corrective lenses help to see. Procrastination. Apathy.These are the things I am
Sta.sh
