Fermented Abomination

I remember being young at the ripe age of 100. Monsters in the closet matter only if I wore clothes. Under the bed I hid out of sheer joy. That, they just might find commonplace. Even though I had never sat with gentlemen. But Saw is on its 5th Irish on st. Patricks. I stopped watching after the dirty rug debacle. Honesty really isn't much in porch gossip. And honestly I couldn't hear you over the nights downpour. With that in mind, I often lie in hells winter. Filling it with imaginary stars is gonna help. Each star to form a truth or ressurect a spirit. But the truth hasn't met our abysmal little galaxy. Siegals album was sweet-nothings at the symposium. Actually it didnt even mean. This room can't fit us both. I was never really a fan of politicians or dancers. AC's are the only things making me waltz in my throneclothes.

And I'm not close to being falsetto who cares. But I wouldn't mind staring in living rooms. Look the opposite way if a black cat fucks up this arrangement. Minus my yesterdays and their strangeness. Tommorows to me rhymes with a body of work. And truthfully I'm tired, quite a paradox. Still waiting on something to drum to huh? Not that I'ma sheer poet to Jim Morrison poems. I have remote control but I only see my flaws. That I can call home without painted claws. No up at bat. No pitcher. No goals that Americans set. But I love playing the field and making you wet. When you get somewhere, the listeners do most the speaking.