Patchwork thoughts crumple out the spout
Apparently the kid's turned mushmouth into sport
Somewhere a hatter laughs or perhaps it was a scoff
I don't know, I'm too far gone to recount the sounds
Service the forks like tomahawks so we can properly
feast on the retorts that taste like a thousand holocausts
Get full, pass out, wake up on a floor more warm
than a mother's embrace, or a thunderstorm's handshake
He's picking scabs to escape the bad
this kid's turning glands into something glad