Huh?
You think you are big.
You think you are bad.
You should probably meet my dad.
Anyway, you run.
So do I.
Wanna race?

I see myself draped in red from the waste down, locking the door of a carpeted bathroom to which I may or may not have a right according to the owner.
I do have a right, though, for I forever outrun owners and dignitaries, malcontents and over-fed politicians.
I defecate happily something harsh to their ears but soft on my ***. Gratefully, I turn the page to another day. This one will not catch me in such distress.
My bowel symphony this morning has four movements and I begin to get impatient after the third because I've made up my mind that I want to read Fitzgerald.
The fourth comes appeasingly and short, a toot in good nature and I clean myself quickly, completely.
I hop downstairs to comb my hair and eat carrots. But my mother is chasing after me stronger than usual, still holding the pill she wants me to take.
I get the carrot and end the poem.

Water.
To your sand.
We'll call it the beach of America.
We'll call us the best in the world.
We'll make (we make) the world get going.
Not late (or whatever) but there's a very important date.
Don't really GAF when, but we ready (will be)

Enough about business, she says.
Teenage Wasteland (Baba O' Reily) is on the radio.
My mom is to my left. We're driving.
For my love, though, I'll end this poeM and listen.

My love ain't no little Queen of Darkness;
My love is a rising star.
You don't know her name, believe me
         you don't need to.
Wish I had a keyboard I could show you
What we both do.
Can't hurt her but I know she could scratch you. (She's hard)
My love makes me think of Paul Simon
       sometimes.
My love is the best since Jesus, you know.
Can't stop her but don't stop trying.
We're all just trying to change that old currency...
One last time.
One last time, ya know.
One last timemmmuh!

Art, baby.
Art... bebe.
ART! Darlin'.
AARRTttttah!
Fantastico.
Subliminal!
Mil tiempo.
Ohno onoway.
Ooopsidaisical.
Hoorayforartsical!
I'm in LOVE!

"These are the days of miracles and wonders and don't cry, baby, don't cry..."

I wanna tell you that you're looking like a movie star,
But somehow I know that wouldn't get me too far.
I'm wishing on a burning hot star and don't mind don't mind, no.

You've got an action that makes me wanna split,
I don't really care too much how you get it.
I'm an eagle with white hair and whatever eyes so baby I'm flying, flying for all the wise.

I miss you but I can't stop complaining,
The overt arrangement is lightening my usual basement.
It's okay I'm sure somehow just sometimes I meet French girls and kinda stare and mutter in amazement.

These are the days of cold slick thunders and big fancy boats that don't have a gun.

These are the days of punch bowl amazements and I know you're having fun!

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