ROAMING IN THE GLOAMING
Most any weekend is made for snuff
and booze; used to be anyway. The
carcass of a farmstand cow chopped
into sirloin, T-Bone, and flank would
never have deterred a normal man.
But I was made of different stuff.
Rib-roast rugged, that was me, as
I heard the thud and groaning of
aggravated and mechanical death.
Just so some asshole could turn it
into feces. That's a joke there, too.
So I had my fun as I whipped away.
I wanted no other's presumption
wearing on me, and they could all
go to Hell. The guy you see, over
there, with the shiny chin, that's the
meat grease from the crap he's now
gobbling up at his harborside feast.
-
All along these little streets, from
Hazlet to Monmouth Beach, all the
nasty roads lead to some ocean-front
vamp. Liquor stores to veteran's
halls, it's all just quite the same.
They gather under umbrellas, and
eat their pork and beans. It's a day
out and something to do in a large
and otherwise dreary life.
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