Rinse a nonstick Neanderthal and watch his head get examined
per the advice of a statuesque actuary, duly hirsute,
aboveboard to the utmost, almost a lamppost. But wait—
I didn't say "Simon says." I did hold my head high
in a last-ditch chipmunk's boudoir ambience; my
fever was beached there, whipped into wrinkles by
decisive greenery, a climate curated in a belief no
soon-to-be-jizzed-on jam band was more than sweet
revenge for. The bachelorette was out of smokes—sad enough
in happier times, downright laundered to shreds in these.
What's needed on the record's an omission of whatever
one is, in ham-handed retrospect, most proud to regret.