Untitled
Spin Trickle the Nickel, its time for a tickle amidst the hays and the wood.
Slip knot the spot, lets see what'cha got, Dear Madame don't know if I should.
Hear cries of magpies, on the slow sunrise, that dawns in the west...or the east?
Who cares for White bears, of the polar glaciers, and the wolves out to dine, and to feast.
Hear listen, and glisten, don't know what yer missin', among the reeds and the willows.
Smack 'round, the bloodhound, and hear the heart pound, with the toss and the throw of the pillows.
Up fuck it, and chuck it passed vomit and bucket, cause the floors need cleaning right quick.
Tip rim, and the limb, and watch the light dim, with morn' and the groan of the sick.
Watch quiet, the riot, while on the slim diet, of Blood and the occasional rat.
They're closing, imposing their rule over hosing, down drunkards and whores, slim 'n fat.
I watch, as they botch, then crank it a notch, on security tight as the air.
The haughty, go potty, and the whores being naughty, some flippant, and some debonair.
Set pace, and to race, the Dainty and grace, full of cheer and jaunty persona.
Slip Fickle, the Sickle, come offer the pickle, like a comets, shimmer shining corona.
Return
