MONKEYMASTER
I feel like a small time in Coney Island, or a
dumpy weekend in some Jersey Shore dive.
That same juke-box piddle playing; digital
soundstage and robotic people. Two girls,
swinging their gorgeous hips in time. A
couple of greasy thugs, already halfway to
drunk and stumbling around. The guy in
the Buick, all bullshit and swagger,
tries parking but gives it up.
-
I'm sitting here with a hole in my shoe and
another somewhere in my heart - withering
looks from the bar-keep, who seems somehow
too dismissive of a one-dollar tip for my taste.
Everything adds up; too bad it's to nothing.
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