high incredulous band stands
teaming with real tans
loose nit sweaters and one lobster faced old man.
All of these semi-automatics,
stuffing corn wrapped wienies.
All of this store-bought virility.
Falling about each other, sliding under and over.
A plastic pack of meat bits being all shook up.
You bad landers hanging out in bars,
over the top of you're wax paper packets.
Going the way of so many muffins,
into the un-girdled glutton that makes up you're base.
Well high ho silver lining and pour me another,
in fact shots for all these bitches,
lets get um drunk enough to touch each other.
Lick those lips and close those eyes,
sweet dreams of fresh baked pies.