Aug 2018
I: Stimulus Package
There calling for the money
The production is over budget and my pockets are hemmed far too tightly
Piddely
Diddely
Squat
Made up words will always describe me best
My spinal cord
My spinal cord
My spinal cord for a kingdom
Debts are paid in vertebra
Bet the bone
Dire straits to win
Eight plus eight equal’s six-teen
Double down
******* double down
Portions and parts are not acceptable; I want the whole danm thing
II: Stimulant Package
So you want a poem?
What does it matter my microphone will always smell like whisky
Assumptions
Assumptions
I denied my right to a trail so the jurors can exit to the right
I ask for two and you give me four
A charity case, so what have I to be proud of?
Sip, chug, a funnel because when you’re young it’s never fast enough
Speakeasy
Prohibit the dialog
Fraud! No! *******!
My diction is ******* in the market and selling seems like the only way to survive
She steps over the *****
She’s a ripped dollar bill
Worthless!
She wants me
I want her
I want to mount her Everest
Pike her peak
Visit the Fertile Crescent and plant my seed
I want to make her right
Keep her symbols chiming to the proper beat
Her foot slid down my leg
Removing the top layer
I’ve been infected
Fraud! No! *******!
She was clean
She was free
A saint
A sales woman
A freeway fruit-tree
I couldn’t help but peal the flesh away to see
Afterwards…..
She asks; who are you?
III: Mercy is a Cancer
Nobody till Friday
A ****** flunkey
A wall that is pomegranate not plumb
Half a bubble off of: Who the **** are you!
Age seems to makes naivety an easy target
Jesus was only thirty two but his ideas held enough water for you
Drink it up when there is only a sip savoring is really out of the question
You want to know who I am…
I am about fifteen cigarettes away from running out of words
Fourteen beers from apologizing for what I said and start agreeing with you
Thirteen second thought until I start resenting you
This is what you signed up for
There’s no retirement plan
Heaven is a truck but all I could afford is this beat up station wagon
Who am I
The **** taken on company time
Non-billable hours
So wipe and flush me away
F i m F i v v e r 2/22/1990 © 9 years ago, Bryant j Frye
There calling for the money
The production is over budget and my pockets are hemmed far too tightly
Piddely
Diddely
Squat
Made up words will always describe me best
My spinal cord
My spinal cord
My spinal cord for a kingdom
Debts are paid in vertebra
Bet the bone
Dire straits to win
Eight plus eight equal’s six-teen
Double down
******* double down
Portions and parts are not acceptable; I want the whole danm thing
II: Stimulant Package
So you want a poem?
What does it matter my microphone will always smell like whisky
Assumptions
Assumptions
I denied my right to a trail so the jurors can exit to the right
I ask for two and you give me four
A charity case, so what have I to be proud of?
Sip, chug, a funnel because when you’re young it’s never fast enough
Speakeasy
Prohibit the dialog
Fraud! No! *******!
My diction is ******* in the market and selling seems like the only way to survive
She steps over the *****
She’s a ripped dollar bill
Worthless!
She wants me
I want her
I want to mount her Everest
Pike her peak
Visit the Fertile Crescent and plant my seed
I want to make her right
Keep her symbols chiming to the proper beat
Her foot slid down my leg
Removing the top layer
I’ve been infected
Fraud! No! *******!
She was clean
She was free
A saint
A sales woman
A freeway fruit-tree
I couldn’t help but peal the flesh away to see
Afterwards…..
She asks; who are you?
III: Mercy is a Cancer
Nobody till Friday
A ****** flunkey
A wall that is pomegranate not plumb
Half a bubble off of: Who the **** are you!
Age seems to makes naivety an easy target
Jesus was only thirty two but his ideas held enough water for you
Drink it up when there is only a sip savoring is really out of the question
You want to know who I am…
I am about fifteen cigarettes away from running out of words
Fourteen beers from apologizing for what I said and start agreeing with you
Thirteen second thought until I start resenting you
This is what you signed up for
There’s no retirement plan
Heaven is a truck but all I could afford is this beat up station wagon
Who am I
The **** taken on company time
Non-billable hours
So wipe and flush me away
F i m F i v v e r 2/22/1990 © 9 years ago, Bryant j Frye
