c,

ur right u cant trust me

i live alone in a one room flat

in south boston, imagine ‘at

i wear only an ankle-cuff

that pinpoints me precisely

so’s i cant ever leave this hovel-lot

herein back-ass alley fracas behind

th corduroy wasteland abandoned

firehouse my ol man broke his knack in before treating me to a good pissing-contest that got me chicaned & sent to the latter daze of the brig until I caught my

breath and broke some glass

now its all jus scary shidt &

hums like u & the tabernacle bum with a saxophone up twelfth who show know why my bookie died in…one zoomin zoot suit backswimmer curtains

& no curtain call

i could be cryin

but then i’ve heard kyle’s story

And he give me hope, i ain’t lyin

yeah sure i know u don’t believe tht as a matter of fact,

but hey…so much for the fat lady anyway, pal,

& th other day my mean sister

brought me a round tuit

so i think, this time, i

may try to make parole

sisyphus rolls & rolls & rolls

but we never saw im rock

g’day,

mb