Beer Barrel Polka
It all starts in the womb. From there it proceeds to the deli.
Never forget what life teaches you: that tombs and nipples
are different manifestations of the same ornery glory,
according to some old law—scrape it off the books
and it just grows back more holy.
But first a killing
has got to be made, after which the seas
sleep soundly, underfunded. Now quiet down.
The game’s on in the other room, mutely playing us.
See, though, that’s just it: nothing lasts forever,
said the cough drop. The movie version was better,
but the state bird must be appeased, and so on.
Take me, for example. I’m like a fighter pilot:
I like to make doodles of girls on napkins,
stationery—whatever’s lying around inertly.
That’s when security bursts in, brandishing
a zeitgeist of its own impeccable design.
Yet if I had one wish, it would be to deconstruct the day
when “wish” became a four-letter word.
Then I might be famous, or at least famous for trying.
In fact, let's ditch the last dance for a victory nap.
I mean pap. I mean the sky’s the credit limit.