‘n i got this up-chuck pot-luck sorta feelin’ goin’,
ain’t about the sick, but those gray-faced folks standin’ by,
talkin’ how they nursed it, kneaded it, baked it just long enough,
just long enough,
that’s about how long we’ve known one another,
that is, if I can still pass a Turing test.
but you’ve sent me all these pictures of your breasts,
‘n i ain’t complainin’ ’cause they’re not somethin’ I would choose to miss,
but, love, you’re just feedin’ this adicktion I got for you,
‘n I think I’m clever,
‘n it’s just that kind of night,
pop-punk ‘n lust ‘n pot-lucks,
‘n maybe I’m just fuckin’ bored,
‘n maybe I’m just fuckin’ lonely,
‘n maybe I’m just… fallin’ short,
but I’m scroungin’ trash for poetry tonight,
‘n cussin’ ’cause this kind of pot-luck don’t care,
‘n I ain’t sayin’ what we’re feastin’ is right,
love,
but it don’t mean i’ve got enough left to fight.
‘n accordin’ to google, my blog costs a dollar,
so i’d like it two fifty cent pieces,
’cause, two, two is more than one.
