behind cheese and bacon,
and opposite Washington D.C.,
I have lived my years a dumb man,
with little to call my own
and less to entertain me.
she loves me and her body keeps me warm,
but I assume she know I am nothing
more than the river and a telephone,
so close that she may want her time back.
if you wrap in a towel with rap music playing
I will probably die a dastardly death without a name,
so don't let the beach eat me
before New Amsterdam has its way
with my bowels for 60 bucks.
maybe this looks just look like love,
and I am not a smart man,
not by any stretch of the hallucination,
so what does she give up
to be with me.
there is a copper hawk
and a someone who is mad,
but if the grey street gives you
the go ahead you take it
like a confederate that looks at how she listens.
when I stumble through my memories
and I come to these sharp things,
when empty became full, like iced tea,
you'll know what it's like to be me.