Ballad Of A Broke Dick Dawg

Now you can see how
this life has rendered me
tits up like two scoops
of soft swirl dipped
in stale Hershey's syrup,

slumped against the trunk
of the all-too-comfy
Sycamore in the Kiddie Park,
like something spotty
brown and calcified
to be Fred Astaire-side-stepped

as the dove-white detox wagon pulls up
manned by Fric and Frac in their clean room
moonwalk bunny suits dragging the tobaggan-sized
pooper scooper in their bow-legged wake.

I can see my florid reflection
in their slow-nodding Darth Vader face masks

and I groan, and go:

"Yeah fuckers, I know just
gimme a second here my
caddy is coming with the motorized cart
just as soon as I tell him
to pull my lazer-guided putter
out of your mama's puckered ass!"

"UP, UP, UP YOU GO!" they bellow
in unison, one on each elbow,

and as I rock and twist
on my piss-soaked haunches,
those are my bones you can hear
running their Jiffy Pop backtalk
while that pink shit starts
oozing again out of my left eyelid tic
like so much curdled Strawberry Quik.

You have to understand
every move
I make anymore

is a colossal bluff
cowlicked with a cotton tongue
on worm-thin cyanotic lips
snuffling straight for the nearest
yawning vulva patch
of shade:

Somebody's just bound
to call me out
one of these days,

and I'll be in a world of shit then
that has all the earmarks of the one we're in,

but different
in subtle fucked-up ways
I can't even begin
to imagine
yet.