I Want What's Yours And I Want What's Mine
Haven't I been here already, just a second from now? I believe that I have danced this tango once already, moments before the evening set on the horizon. I suspect that it's all just a myth, yet somehow I keep buying into their gimmicks and shiny advertisements, only to be disappointed in the end when the plastic wrapped toy isn't what they had declared it would be from the picture on the box.
I get the feeling that I am altogether less significant than I first thought I was when my ride on this merry-go-round started. I should be riding the little gray pony at the back, not in the fairytale carriage pulled by the unicorns with silver horns and enamel manes the color of old snow. I will move to the back, wrap my arms around that pony, and call him Fitzgerald R. Hillshire.
Did you see that chicken on the corner? The corner by the bar with the drive-through liquor sales? His yellow polyester feathers are wilting in the sun; empty potato chip bags and used napkins are swirling around his Converse-clad feet; feet that are worn out from walking through the disillusionment of this world. His sign reads: When you run out of sick days and call in dead, who will answer?
Your words are as thin as the papers that I used to roll my joints with, back when getting high would take up an entire day and gave me cause to think that Mini Reeses Peanut Butter Cups could be the salvation of the world; all we needed was to convince Ziggy Marley to sing about it.
Bring on the dancing circus poodles with their silly hats and comical faces. I've got my cotton candy and crispy chips drowning in Cheez Whiz and pickled jalapenos. I paid my $6.00 at the window; I've got a ticket stub to prove it, and dammit, I demand satisfaction. Be a good minion and buy me a headband with sparkly red pom-poms on that waggle enticingly when I sing some death-metal karaoke at the bar down the street. You know the one I'm talking about? The one with the Converse-wearing chicken brandishing his sign that now reads: Mary had a little lamb; His blood cleans our sins white as snow.
~
I get the feeling that I am altogether less significant than I first thought I was when my ride on this merry-go-round started. I should be riding the little gray pony at the back, not in the fairytale carriage pulled by the unicorns with silver horns and enamel manes the color of old snow. I will move to the back, wrap my arms around that pony, and call him Fitzgerald R. Hillshire.
Did you see that chicken on the corner? The corner by the bar with the drive-through liquor sales? His yellow polyester feathers are wilting in the sun; empty potato chip bags and used napkins are swirling around his Converse-clad feet; feet that are worn out from walking through the disillusionment of this world. His sign reads: When you run out of sick days and call in dead, who will answer?
Your words are as thin as the papers that I used to roll my joints with, back when getting high would take up an entire day and gave me cause to think that Mini Reeses Peanut Butter Cups could be the salvation of the world; all we needed was to convince Ziggy Marley to sing about it.
Bring on the dancing circus poodles with their silly hats and comical faces. I've got my cotton candy and crispy chips drowning in Cheez Whiz and pickled jalapenos. I paid my $6.00 at the window; I've got a ticket stub to prove it, and dammit, I demand satisfaction. Be a good minion and buy me a headband with sparkly red pom-poms on that waggle enticingly when I sing some death-metal karaoke at the bar down the street. You know the one I'm talking about? The one with the Converse-wearing chicken brandishing his sign that now reads: Mary had a little lamb; His blood cleans our sins white as snow.
~