She took Euro Trash and Mietel and moved onto your couch,
with a paramedic's grip on both - and really let you know
that that place was just a hole, with a rag-tag clientele.
And now your head's revoked and mixing drinks
to pass the time, concoctions named from pop phenoms
until you're both dumb and blind.
A first for you,
moving back on person row.

And people who say they quit smoking, but really
just stop spending the cash, as if
you're tuff stuff on the covered streets gets
you some "he's a regular" pass.
You're moving in and out of holes and in
to Heartland trash.

Take a ticket from a box and step inside,
so we can get a good look at you:
Big 'ole stupid shoes and a nervous twitch ta boot:
"If I could give a nonchalant repartee to the topic
of the group to stop, relay the taught and taunt response
and Georgia font, my day to say to pray to gay today,
stop I'm in a box."
But maybe things would dissipate if we had time to
concentrate, but with so much sickness and so much
schtick, we've been standard and solemn in our thoughts.
Don't be a dick -
We're all from days.

And people who's dwelling sensibilities say they're
ready for a detailed answer this time, as if you've
earned the right to tall-tell tales because you can't
keep your big 'ole head in line.
And a Redwall sense can go so far until you're
charmed-up Euro Trash.
Or maybe you've accrued one last bet.
Or maybe it's somewhere else.
Or maybe you're out of time.
Feelin fine.
Poor advice.
i always love reading your voice. i can never tell what the hell you're talking about 85% of the time but it's so interesting to read nonetheless
here, My Dear, here it is