Zip it, Tommy

The guy's glossomania's giving me a headache.

Jesus, Tom shut up! I tell you, man, I got your
Point. You're out of sorts and stuck in London,
Sniffling in a frigid mist, and missing, though
You wish you weren't, the sunny skies and
Corn-fed dolts who dot the Mississippi's banks.
You want to leave the catacombs of myth and
Classic, almost-classic, altogether unremembered,
Pieces of pretentious verse, to follow that unsightly
Kid into the secretary's pants...or someone else's.
Anyway, I'm with you, pal. Go out. Get laid,
And bring your wasteland into bloom,

And end the droning that has hurt my brain.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 19 times
Written on 2010-12-27 at 20:08

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