Strange thoughts are a comin'
There is vomit in my head and it will go on for endless years until I finally crack the hatchet and bear my skull against some poor neighbors wall. I am mean, angry, and sober beyond my lifetime and have not been able to dream good for a nice plenty of weeks. My plan is to shack the man thought to keep me sane, and over a nice dinner of steak and potato and some whiskey to boot, plan my life with him in an ongoing trap or haze of well being in order to suffice whatever else was too ill equipped to function in this society. From then on, I will serve cocktails before noon, stop believing in church, start believing in church, smoke them by the packs (the good the bad the mad), pop pills like a noose is tied, pop more to tally more effective marks of idealistic culture, pop corn for the movies in order to decrease our mad house discontent, pop pop pop pop pop goes the weasel. pop pop pop pop pop goes my soul.