Our twin eyes peered blankly into a plug store that was Joan Rivers
of 81 spinal years on blown vinyl chairs & oak-knotted bone slivers
that scratch the front of her **** like cameras beaten by drone livers
with relish, reliant on the fairest blessings of toe-errant crone givers
crushed by avalanche & made salt-mine deaf by rod & cone shivers
Joan moisturized new plastical scar slits with needled sewn quivers
just like big boys do; like the toady of Mr. Burns, Waylon Smithers
durin' break, shakily swooning to a crooning of a Marvin Gaye tune
after Marvin junior was shot by Marvin senior who was a luny loon
Bein' married to you is better than pluggin' drains too big to expand
the number of turbo jet flights to affable Disappointment City Land
near a region-4 F.E.M.A. death camp where all parsnips are canned
'cause prisoners demandin' fresh parsnips are going to get beheaded