Whither come you from?
Answer me, damn you:
You were wispy and sparse.
You were weedy and spare.
The top of my head had hair
And then didn’t
But now does again.
Never my face
Perhaps I have some Cherokee in me.
(I do not have any Cherokee in me.)
But now I am brambled.
My lip quivers under the novel weight.
What of my nasal integrity?
This may call for labial buttressing.
Good God, a pucker scaffold might just do!
The doctor did not mention this possibility.
I’m gonna get my wind back,
And I’m gonna pair it with my New Mustache,
And we’re gonna murder the Clanton Gang.
We’re gonna clean up this town.
The plague birds are not social distancing;
I don’t think they’ve listened to the CDC at all.
For fuck’s sake, they’re flocking together.
Someone call the authorities;
Someone levy fines.
People who know about birds call ’em ibises.
I don’t nothing about anything,
Little loud ones;
Some taste good fried.
Not a lot of meat on a plague bird.
I’ll make you a deal,
Your wings for my brain.
I’ll fly over Target
And the orthodontist’s office;
The shuttered diner, too.
You sit here and think
About Medicare fraud
And the infield fly rule
And whether Toscanini was hung.
You find a better offer, you take it.
The Instagram Hotties have gone to
The agency rented a house
Or maybe it was the energy drink company
Yeah, it’s an infinity pool
The ones in Bali are nicer.
Between you and me?
The desert sucks
How can one be expected to hydrate?
It’s not an option, hydration
Thank God for cryogenic blood facials
I have one scheduled for when we get back to Los Angeles
Give it up for The 1975
I’m gonna fuck a 1975.
Probably the drummer
Do they have a drummer,
Or are they one of those bands without a drummer?
I don’t wanna fuck the bass player, but I will if I have to.
Is this too much underboob?
(If there’s such a thing)
I’m showing underboob in honor of Nipsey Hussle
It’s how he would have wanted my boobs
He taught us so much
Is it a good thing or a bad thing that Kendall isn’t here?
O Lord make me a Gentile
With hard-working hands
Skinny little legs
And a hard round belly
When you got a tool like mine,
You gotta build a shed over it.
Bud Lights in Sturgis
I wanna get thrown out of Dollywood, Lord
Oooh, lemme at them bandanas, but
Not like David Foster Wallace
The opposite of David Foster Wallace
And not a do-rag, neither
Obviously not a do-rag
You know: a bandana
Stars and bars’d be just peachy
Or Old Glory
Something patriotic, Lord.
I wanna call every man I meet Brother.
Molly Hatchet’s playing down the fairgrounds tonight
My cousin’s working security
We gonna have ourselves a time.