We're proud to show his full collection: all
undrawn, the parched vaquero gets to sin.
Then--(click) ghoti (click, click) static (click) exist,
and bam, he'll spray you down. The prison's testing
its iambic too: one foot in front of the other,
upright, engaged, happy, a little thing, then silence
in tabs along the top, Just two and he'll
be dancing to a lyric he can't smell,
old follicles and lifted faces, self
ahead, the interstate behind, non-stops
that ring--or, as we say, he'll "trip the rooster,"
eaten, nuked, processed, conceived, pimped and perky,
unsuitable for dudes, but fuck it--he'll
have double failures marking up the list.
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