I can't stand to see
this subpar standard of sickness.
They shout get down out over the halls filled with lights
and I let go free of my highness.

Your sweat is candy cane
carcinogen cancer kissable sweet.
Its all the lines, and caps, and tabs and snaps we've done
they all go to get me on my feet.

Words waddle out wet
winding washed up wishes back to life.
My mind holds confused conference calls and buzzed board meetings
about what to do with my one night wife.

Hotel havens harken us and
hazardous inhaleables heighten habitions.
We lay down warm and panting after an exaggerated night of furious dancing
to practice on our yet unnamed positions.

I wake wicked wasted
wondering where the woman went.
Her clothes lay scattered, make up splattered, then I hear her in the bathroom chatter
that her night had been well spent.