Pearl earrings and a polka dotted
mug, three shots deep
and I'm bleeding tar
and feathers. You'll be
in England and I'll be chewing
on cement trying to break
the rest of my teeth. Listening
to meteor showers whisper
that it doesn't count if the last
sixty wishes are all the same.
I remember you told me
you'd walk the Earth for me.
Would you still? Or are your legs
too sore from lugging the weight
of your pride and malignancy?