seems I gotta pay you in one o’ two currencies you regard
I’d prefer it be women,
but can’t seem find one cruel enough
like to scratch itch you got
(or least itch-the-monkey-got
been ridin’ you since
first thought you had yo’self)
back when you learnt trick
to go make the world hush
n’ wrap it up in a veil
so you’s could hear what’s inside
the skull-box, the head-bell.
so ‘stead I’m paying ya’ in dusky goddess
albeit, one sec-on-dairy substitute.
look like a milk bottle anyways
just like the patch of sugar-lick,
type they put up on astronaut’s helmet
(right up on the visor),
kissin’ that nose-scratch pad
only other thing you give **** ‘bout
fore’ they shoot your *** out past air n’ reason
on ‘dat titanium dildo-burn-momma-plume
stretchin’ right back on the char.
your guts higher than Chuck Yeager
and the launch pad crispier
than site o’ your first break-up,
that first pretty thing...
somewhere's ‘long boundary road, right?
west end.
same spot little ‘sparrows die
if they light down there,
even recent be as yesterday
but back now on the rocket,
you all tongue-stuck on NASA sugar-lick
cow on molasses
lab-coat-spice raspin’ your tongue.
don’t taste like sugar at all, do it?
So fore’ black hole turn you
all pasta filata, cheese stick, spa-ghett-o-fied
like somethin’ out of Michigan-kid’s school lunch
I want ya’ howl something’ special for me.
inta’ mic on hand,
while you strum Bm7 n G6
on the faithful...
I want you cut me down
a re-cor-ding of’ Hollywood’ by America.
closest I ever gonna get
make me
something I can keep and warm my hands by.
and I want you make it real tasty.
Stockwell - May, 2026