Rather be at Oldfield’s

This halo is recycled tinsel.
I’m lost in the thistle.
Went deaf
from the sound of your whisper.
Went down to the river,
but I didn’t pray.
Climbed to the top of the mountain,
but I didn’t stay.

If I could sing, I’d belt out a duet
with an auto-tuned version of myself,
because fuck everybody else!

If I could dance, I’d break out a mirror,
set it up so I’d have somebody to dance with,
because nobody wants a piece of this damage.

Lounging by the pool.
My pecs bulging.
Eyes shining.
Skin gleaming.
I’m intense,
like watching the nurse
take your blood
while Megadeath plays live
and a goat gives birth
in front of you.

Look at her in the polka dot bikini!
She’s too beautiful to know about Antietam,
why go and tell her? Look at that doll in the corner
dancing, smiling! Sashaying ass and all that.
Don’t even bring up Nanking.

As I was saying
some things are better left unsaid…

Heaven and Valhalla
are clogged with believers.
I’d rather pony up to the bar
at Oldfield’s. Order a scotch
and stare at my watch.

I’m in a bad mood.
But I’m not a bad dude.
Just don’t get on my bad side,
which is hexagonal and crude.


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