ALL MY HOPE IS
FOR FLYING SAUCERS
And these fucking lawn people make me
sick. The moron stands there with his blower,
a mile a minute head of sound, staring down.
His ears, his, mind you, not mine, are covered.
He spends fortunes on grooming his lawn,
and once it grows he insists on keeping it
down, trimmed to a half-inch of idiotic
pussy-faced carpeting. A green flow. A
nothing. When all it wishes to do is grow
a height, maybe 5 inches high, and go to
seed. Propogate itself like wild in the wind.
Which, of course, he promotes but would
never let happen. The fucking moron is too
dense to understand. He'd rather have his
barbecue Eddie friend and his TV screen,
watching new episodes of Murder One and
'Here We Bleed.' I hope a flying saucer comes
and takes him away - reconstructs the body -
and sends it back; with his lungs on the outside
now (where I can rip them out) and his new
eyes, in threes, on the butt of his snout.