Rim Shot At The Friar's Roast

Egg shell tippy toes
trip-wired to the panty strap
chit chat and propriety all
humming

like a pubic patch blow dryer
in the broom closet of a Carson City
whorehouse,

while down the hall, in the sun-streaked
atrium of Studio B, bow-legged weathermen
gather at the water cooler

to talk shop and tap-dance around
the brutal truth

of faked orgasms,

and their correlation to the mythical purple
bell curve median tip

of the Six Inch Dick...

No sense in sitting there
with those loamy, eyelash-batting stares
like Gumby dolls trying to keep the cowbells
on your necks from going off:

Raze this withered edifice
of kiltered stage with a whizzing hail
of rotten fucking vegetables!

thrust dead Bic lighters strapped
with snot strings to swollen fuck fingers
straight up

in my face, as long as the emotion
is honest
and unvarnished

I can take a pasting,

so lay it
on me already.