Delicacy
Something fierce I wanna
stalk in on the two longest legs this town’s ever seen,
grab that no good by his fat-filled dome
and say,
listen here, baby,
you’re nothing but a hatless bastard.
No class. Strictly corpulent.
A badly-knit sweater
with a face that could make an onion cry,
let alone a gal.
and a couple of upside-downers,
you don’t come round no more
you’re out on the town every night
billy-goating around,
and here I am all alone
fragile as Frida’s broken baby-maker.
So you’re out, buster,
out on your ear
You keep your chin up you hear?
Your chin up
and your crevices clean.
to whet your whistle
or twist the truth to dip your pickle,
that patron saint of liars,
spit upon you from unfathomable heights.
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