Why is moving interrelated to grooving?
I need no more lines on my face, on my mirror. I bought too much of now in my youth.
Is my DNA deterioration catching up to my wisdoms? "Train man let me ride. Goin' home to see my baby." "I want to feel my own covers on my own bed. Train man let me ride."
"Mona Lisa musta had the Highway Blues, ya can tell by the way she smiles." Riding too long. But don't let me off. I'm gettin' off. It's way off. They say don't write enebriated. But we've celebrated. A bit of time I've captured for myself. Now, I know better. Better ryhmes with butter, sort of. Sored of. Pain. Gain. Gaynor. Fame. We are family, community, a bunch of radical communists about to be treated rudely like Trotsky.
They asked for it. Let me loose tonight on this writing machine. A sexless machine full of hormones. The Whore moans. A joke, a choke, a poke, a poke-weed. James Polk. Is he really dead? Is he ahead? I was, now, the formidable beer head. A remedial Boar's Head. Crippled in the brain by way of induced inductive unreasoning. Harry Reasner. Raisin Bread. Razin' the Bar. Raising the Barf.
They will bring the Reaper. I'll be the weeper. Loser's Jeeper. I want to cuss at you. Attu. The island some thousand miles away. But too close. We have new problems. You don't know about the sand fleas. You laugh. They itch, they cry. We do too. For against. Four too many.
You do and don't understand. I'd rather fall. On my face, in disgrace, all over the place. Plais. Plais, Plais. Mssr. Brown, help my frown. I wanna Get Down. Way down. A syndrome where I can smile without stopping. A stopper never replaced on a wine of human kindness that sings the blues forever.
"It was fine when my baby and I were drinkin' wine;" The Twine of Time. It returns to vinegar. An ugly Minotaur.
I can only remember the old songs. No wrongs. Fine Hind Sight.
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