me and poison apple are settin up our stuff
on the stage at bayou pumpsie’s southern rib palace.
it’s late afternoon. the lights are on and the place is mostly empty
except for this guy at the bar wearin a wife beater and a bill cap.
he got hair in his ears and lots to say.
“what’s a purty little gal like you doin’ in a place like this?’ he say, grinnin like he just thought it up.
cos yankee stadium was booked, you dumb cocksucker, i think, but i’m too much the lady to say.
how come these guys hit forty,
get comfy at a gig in the shipping department at asshat & sons,
and all sudden like, they think god reached down and filled their bald empty domes with all the knowledge and wisdom of the freakin ages?
they start up with “what ya got to understand”
and wind up with
“see what i’m sayin?”
no, dude, you too deep for me,
like a stall ain’t been mucked out for fifty fuckin years.
i’m thinkin, mister, you the kentucky derby of bullshit.
you the super bowl of fuckin stupidity.
you the grand marshall of the talkin-out-your-ass parade.
the guy at the bar sips his beer,
and my ears almost stop bleedin.
then he’s off again, he knows every player on every team in every sport,
but can’t find his dick with both hands and a pack of hound dogs.
he in mid rant when it starts up from the stage–
feedback like jimi hendrix passin a kidney stone.
“oops” i say and
smile quietly to m’self, cos i’m
ever the fuckin lady.
for kerry’s challenge at real toads