I'm trailer trash
And you're the tattered wheels

Run me over
Vilipended shrew

This place is full of
Rabid raccoons
And collect calls

Someone's got to pay

Maybe we can milk
A cash cow
Or plant a money tree
Between grandma
And the shed

A game of miniature golf
Always helps my mind
Get back on par
(More or less)

Then it's back to the bus stop
And be done with you

This room is
cacophonous
a crowd in halves,
ceaseless dichotomy,
roaring in
desperate appeal.
Vilipend the words
of the other side
as they aren’t human
but voices shouting
obscenities incorrectly.
Truth, here,
is a myth
sold for millions,
and those of us who wish to
listen
drown in the
tide of screams.