the lean art of everything on hip hips

wake up on a narrow bridge
and then get easy, go under fire,
with your chin and shins,
all the women in me
are damn tired.

belong to everyone,
I don't know how to pretend,
and therefore I haven't any shame
to substitute with sorrow,
especially in missing young mornings.

be a guitar solo,
and then be something else,
that is my modus operandi,
and then hop on to
the next Tuesday sing thing.

say thank you for the time,
and don't be jealous
at the hotel bar,
as well as this poem,
that turns out worse than expected.