Monday, May 9, 2011

In The Outhouse (Lurks A Lady)

in the outhouse
by the peace pipe
lurks a lady
near the ass wipe.

like a phantom
with a hardon,
in a dish rag
saying so long

to a candle
singing for me,
but she'll never
win a tony.

'cause the carpet
stained with toe jam
lost a contest
in her trash can.

seems that weirdos
on her jukebox
passed out needles
while in detox.

but the moral
of the story
isn't known yet
there's no glory.

she's a jackknife
with no handle;
broken pieces
in a pfandl.

she's like blown glass
with no offspring
just a briefcase
and one earring.

she's a roadblock
holding traffic
to a standstill
by some heat stick.

hope she lingers
for a while
on the staircase
or the stile,

'cause i want to
build a footbridge
cross her river
of hot porridge;

but her tantrums
drinking sloe gin
leave me tone deaf
with a clothes pin.

i can't take it
when she's sleeping
on a mattress
with no box spring.

she has breakfast
every evening
in a birdbath
and it's freezing.

she sees rejects
over cloudbursts
and sends post cards
wearing pampers.

then some desk clerk
winked his eyeball
so she quickly
made a phone call.

now they hopscotch
nearing midnight
with no shoes on
or a flashlight.

they are two seeds
in a jam jar
going nowhere
in a sports car.

curse the outhouse
by the peace pipe
and the lady
near the ass wipe


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