cigarette smoke ‘n guitar strokes,
now this, this a party.
they’re a good couple
gonna be newly weds in a couple months,
course, they don’t know that yet
all delta blues ‘n 90s grunge,
takin’ turns strummin’ out tunes the dead can recognize
I’m pissed
don’t remember why
probably over some woman
for a guy who thinks guys are pretty,
I obsess over women.
maybe I ain’t over bein’ a fag
it ain’t right bein’ a fag
don’t, don’t, don’t be a fag
[she’s got red lipstick ‘n fuck-me-hips
got a mind like a vice
knows all the times I’ve drooled over her voice
she’s married,
but she don’t like him much]
don’t, don’t be a fag
this was before I picked up pipe smokin’,
so I’ve got my Pall Mall Reds,
shootin’ smoke from nostrils,
nicotine high ‘n anger’s got me thinkin’ of cartoon bulls
they’re out of beer so we’re shootin’ gin.
he ‘n his friend both have a hundred pounds on me,
I said fuck Kinect, so we’re arm wrestlin’.
I suggest Wye Oak’s Civillian,
found it over the summer
haulin’ logs, killin’ black snakes
we called ’em water moccasins,
but golfers don’t know them from rat snakes,
‘n they’re all black to them,
‘n black ain’t no part of a country club in Arkansas,
not without dirt-covered beer-bellied men mutterin’ slurs under breath.
“Steve, you wouldn’t believe my girl
she’s got breasts the size a’ watermelons
‘n those gotta have ’em dick-suckin’ lips”
he’s tall, fire haired,
he’s got Messiah hands ‘n a Moses voice,
oaken bones ‘n a tornado smile
this half-slug Kansas drawl of speakin’
“only thing is she hangs out with this fag,
don’t know how she stands it.”
don’t, don’t, don’t be a fag.
“you’re just confused” as dad put it.
“I am nothing without pretend”
they got thick sequoia trunks for arms,
I got my bamboo-spindle-sticks,
but arm wrestlin’ is a game of stubborn,
–don’t, don’t, don’t be a fag.
[she’s got red lipstick ‘n fuck-me-hips,
‘n I need this]
I ain’t no damn fag.
I got plenty of stubborn.
she’s too drunk, get’s put to bed,
he’s got a ring box.
they’re a good couple.
this is love.
–don’t, don’t, don’t be a fag.
