"robbins" poems
the lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--
instead of listening to Shostakovich and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities:
we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint...
we park outside and look at icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
"what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?"
"come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.
I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while...")
--those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals...
and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other's
arms.
the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.
195.8k
The lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--
instead of listening to Shostakovich and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities:
we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint...
we park outside and look at icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
"what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?"
"come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.
I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while...")
--those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals...
and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other's
arms.
the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
Turquoise blues guitars
Laughing baby elephants (that paint)
Melodies singing lullabies to sleepy baby elephants
(tired from painting all day)
Blank canvases full of blackberries on the inside
The antidote to love
All the dotes that didn't get doted
And all the ones that did
Playing badminton in the backyard of Cupid's summer home in Manarola
The ruby that died to make Dorothy's slippers
And the shortest hair from the Lion's tail
Wine filled grapes
Water balloons filled from hot springs and melted mountain snow
Two spokes from Steve McQueen's "Great Escape" motorcycle
Three kisses from Ilsa Lund
And a smile from Sabrina Fairchild
Tom Robbins' typewriter (it's magic)
A flying dragon
A dragonfly (grounded for not doing her homework)
Jenny's phone number
The pillow that hit the floor at Cecilia's that afternoon
The third stair from the top of the Stairway to Heaven (best view)
One of the lost souls swimming in a fish bowl
And a grain of salt from the sea the other is swimming in
An olympic size pool full of melted crayons
A vile of sweat from the ever fleeing muse
A refrigerator the size of Rhode Island
Full of magnificent lines of magnetic poetry
Poetry (all of it)
The monster under the monster's bed
Every foul ball ever caught by any kid
Hammocks (any and every)
The cardboard boat that never stopped sailing down the gutter of the world
The secret to everything
(kept securely under the bed of the monster, under the monster's bed)
Santa's real address (you won't believe this)
The blue ink from the blueprints of Atlantis
Golf carts with no maximum speed
The energy dust left from dancing, hugging and smiling
Freshly climbed trees
A warehouse the size of Antarctica completely filled
Wall to wall with raw, unfiltered laughter
Beer
Everything that was left on the field
Passionate embraces and embracing a passion
Apology free, but full of forgiveness
The wild of the wilderness
The tame of the un-tame
Language
Intuition
Conception
First kisses, waves and winks
Goodbye hugs and thrown in kitchen sinks
Art
Music
Pain
Puddles that have been danced in under pouring rain
Empty film cans
Films on screens
All of these ingredients
Are what makes up
Dreams
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Dear Hot Straight Actresses,
Stop playing perfect lesbian characters on TV that cause me to become wet on lonely Thursday nights.
It’s the equivalent of waving double chocolate fudge cake in front of a menstruating woman who has just been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes.
To name a few,
Jennifer Beals as Bette Porter on The L Word.
Stop it!
Naya Rivera as the sassy Santana Lopez on Glee.
Stop it!
Angie Harmon as butch goddess Detective Jane Rizzoli on Rizzoli & Isles.
You may be in the closet but you are gay and stop!
And Sara Ramirez and Jessica Capshaw as the married ****** Dr. Cali Torrez and Dr. Arizona Robbins of Grey’s Anatomy.
You…you keep going. You two give me hope.
Hope that someday my insanely high expectations will be met when my hot art collecting, sassy mouthed Doctor with handcuffs in her back pocket jumps from the screen and onto my sweatpants covered lap.
In this crazy assumption that I’ll end up falling out of an apple tree letting gravity push me into the arms of a woman who fixes my broken sense of reality with a amazing great hair and a wedding proposal.
Missing out on the
Hot barista who gives me an extra large when I ask for a small
or the
Budding **** artist who invites me to her galleries only to realize her muse has oddly the same hips as me.
or the
Best friend who is still stuck in the shadows of my closet.
Nope…didn’t see any of those.
I’m too busy watching the **** tube to see what low cut tops they can get away with before they leave the set and back to their husband and 2.5 kids.
All I’m asking is…
…when is it coming out on DVD?
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 7:17 AM UTC
Driving around this valley of sheets
When I see a IHOP and realize
that a sudden hunger has come over me
They say Come Hungry, Leave Happy, and
with one glance at your buns, perfectly made
I realize that I have been staring far too long.
Like Taco Bell, I should Think Outside The Bun
But as I pass a Burger King I begin to wonder
how many possible ways there really are
to Have It Your Way, and as I lay you down
I smile at the thought of how wonderful the taste
of each one of your Baskin Robbins 31 Flavors will be.
While I start to undress you I pause, hesitant
With your smile and slow rhythmic breaths
a song bursts into my head with a just one tip
as if I'm at Cold Stone, and I think, just Let Yourself Go.
"Where to start?" I ask as I glance up at Subway
and I am reminded that I should always Eat Fresh.
I should go in slow, but I dive right in like a bucket of KFC
The scent of you, so enticing. The taste, Finger Lickin' Good
I'll savor every moment, and by the subtle McDonald's arches
that your back resembles, I'm Lovin' It and so are you.
I grab a handful at ******* and realize that this poem
is Delightfully Tacky, Yet Unrefined. Nonetheless,
I can tell by the look in your eyes that you are ready
Asking the same question that they ask at Wendy's
Where's The Beef?
Mar 28, 2011
Mar 28, 2011 at 1:30 PM UTC
I swallowed her and now
She lives inside me or I live
Through her, we are alive.
I’m her friend, her teenage
And fantasies, a sixty year old-
Hair and books she ever read
Long distance phone calls
And delight matched our
Love for Sujata, Mr And Mrs Iyer
And I sat on her couch on my
Despised vacations sketching
Letters to Milena, Quabbani
And we spoke of her brothers,
Generations and cafes I went.
I’m Delhi, Bangalore and
Endless conversations-
She never met and she’s my
Lost Malayalam, postcards and
A world so familiar, a childhood.
Hold your breath and relax
I’m going to stay and listen
Till you are out of stories and
I repeat, remind and you smile.
I’ll get you melodies and 60s
Harold Robbins and Nutan,
Your weirdness and aloofness.
You don’t grow old with me
I’ll live, I promise as your fonts
Visit places you walked and
Write to you all, deep- blue
Letters, deep- blue-letters.
You are my first high-heels
Strawberry fields and music system
I’ll recite you a love story
Picture him as our classic heroes
And giggle as girls sixteen and
Seventeen. You swallowed me
And I live through you, we’re alive.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men
early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.
despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-damn anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…
8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
As I rounded the hill
Face to face with the still
That I'd only heard rumors spoke of
With no one around
I sat myself down
And proceeded to sample the stuff
As sweet as honeydew melon
Got my feet to a geling
Made me feel like I did in my youth
Sat with a dumb gaze for a while
Then got the biggest of smiles
When it came to me what I should do
So I went with my plan
And opened a stand
Right there on the mountain side
When word in the forest got out
I never had any doubt
That all of the critters would be stoping by
You should have seen them all guzzle
As the squirrels ordered doubles
Then proceeded to tell wild nutty lies
It was quite the fiasco
When they brought out the cowboy hats and lasso's
As the party went well into the night
They paid in nuts and berries
Which was fine by me
With them I made different flavors of shine
In flavors I made 32
So I wouldn't get sued
By Baskin-Robbins who has 31 at this time
From all the flavors I made
Boysenberry was the fav
The raccoons made up a dance called the boysenberry crawl
Which was a big hit
At the discotheque
The beavers built in the early fall
We made a deal
I would sell them my swill
For a little piece of the pie
We were all getting rich
I have to admit
It's quite the relationship, the beavers and I
Of course the beavers got greedy
You know how beavers are needy
Couldn't leave well enough alone
Figured they had the right
Who's going to pay for these lights
That make this the best disco in town
They started charging a cover
Which didn't go over
As well as they would have liked
Plus they doubled the price of the *****
Which left little food
On the woodland creatures tables at night
Things went from bad to worse
When they started to curse
Me, "The Man" for the troubles they had
I barely made it out alive
By the skin of my hide
When I packed and hit the road mighty fast
Things had been going so well
Before it all went to hell
And me and my still were forced to leave
Now still to this day
You know why I always say
That famous line, passed down in time
"Leave it to Beav"
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 10:51 AM UTC
690
Victory comes late—
And is held low to freezing lips—
Too rapt with frost
To take it—
How sweet it would have tasted—
Just a Drop—
Was God so economical?
His Table’s spread too high for Us—
Unless We dine on tiptoe—
Crumbs—fit such little mouths—
Cherries—suit Robbins—
The Eagle’s Golden Breakfast strangles—Them—
God keep His Oath to Sparrows—
Who of little Love—know how to starve—
2.6k
In the dim yellow light beneath deciduous trees she spun methodically in Autumn. Shadows loomed aloft, chirping their approval. She spun and seemed to levitate, the flickers of the evening flame reflected in her pale green eyes darting in between loose strands of bland vermilion hair. And she spun and spun as if she'd spin forever,
Autumn.
She was Autumn there and then, personified in glints of golden green and faded yellow brown descending listlessly to greet the open canvas of the forest floor.
And the shadows pressed into the earth and disappeared as overhead the rain slashed through the shyness of the crowns betwixt the trees.
And she slowly spun her last, and lastly, panting stood before me naked, shivering in the gentle gales that rose and fell like Mozart's heavy heart.
I beckoned her with dead weights crudely fashioned to the pauldrons of my coffin that hung lowly, swaying listless as the leaves. And she smiled a tired smile and blew the kiss I yearned for seasons to receive before collapsing in the dirt.
In Autumn.
-Mike Robbins-
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 5:50 PM UTC
Listening to George Jones.
Or Mel Tillis.
Or Maybe Mickey Gilley.
I'm just a country boy listening to a country song.
Good loving.
Or a good feeling.
I'm just a country boy listening to a country song.
Listening to the original Statler Brothers.
Singing Flowers on the Wall.
Or Marty Robbins singing My Woman, My Woman, My Wife.
There's nothing greater then a good country song.
Whether it's by Johnny Cash.
Or Johnny Paycheck.
Or Roger Miller singing Dang It.
There's just nothing like a good country song.
Sure they reminds you of the blues.
Or the blues reminds you of country.
Either way the message is cleared.
There's nothing like a good country love song.
Throw in some Tammy Wynette.
Or Loretta Lynn.
Or play you some Dolly.
And you'll see the story happening.
Cause there's nothing like a good country song.
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 10:45 PM UTC
The voice of Morgan Freeman can make flowers sprout
Penguins march like an army to the rhythm of his voice
The voice of an opera singer may break glass
But his just melds it back together
I'm pretty sure
Somewhere
He's narrating my every footstep
My every breath
My every twitch
He's somewhere looking down on me
Giving the best play by play ever
His deep bellowing voice
Opens the worn hole
Helps break Tim Robbins out of Shawshank
And helps batman save Gotham
The only thing he can't do
Is get me through high school
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:41 AM UTC
Out in the West Texas town of El Paso I fell in love with a Mexican girl. Night-time would find me in Rosa's cantina Music would play and Felina would whirl.
Blacker than night were the eyes of Felina Wicked and evil while casting a spell. My love was deep for this Mexican maiden I was in love but in vain, I could tell.
One night a wild young cowboy came in Wild as the West Texas wind. Dashing and daring A drink he was sharing with wicked Felina The girl that I loved.
So in anger I Challenged his right for the love of this maiden down went his hand for the gun that he wore. My challenge was answered in less than a heart-beat, the handsome young stranger lay dead on the floor.
Just for a moment I stood there in silence, shocked by the foul evil deed I had done. Many thoughts raced through my mind as I stood there I had but one chance and that was to run.
Out through the back door of Rosa's I ran Out where the horses were tied. I caught a good one It looked like it could run Up on its back And away I did ride just as fast as I Could from the West Texas town of El Paso Out to the bad-lands of New Mexico.
Back in El Paso my life would be worthless Everything's gone in life, nothing is left. It's been so long since I've seen the young maiden My love is stronger than my fear of death.
I saddled up and away I did go Riding alone in the dark. Maybe tomorrow A bullet may find me Tonight nothing's worse than this Pain in my heart. And at last here I Am on the hill overlooking El Paso I can see Rosa's cantina below My love is strong and it pushes me onward Down off the hill to Felina I go.
Off to my right I see five mounted cowboys, off to my left ride a dozen or more. Shouting and shooting I can't let them catch me, I have to make it to Rosa's back door.
Something is dreadfully wrong for I feel A deep burning pain in my side. Though I am trying To stay in the saddle I'm getting weary Unable to ride
But my love for Felina is strong and I rise where I've fallen Though I am weary I can't stop to rest I see the white puff of smoke from the rifle I feel the bullet go deep in my chest
From out of nowhere Felina has found me Kissing my cheek as she kneels by my side Cradled by two loving arms that I'll die for One little kiss and Felina, good-bye
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 1:35 AM UTC
The writers
The writers
Hold aloft their lighters
And worship styles of Kafka, Robbins, Steinbeck, and of Stoppard,
With syrup and with sawdust – a spicing so improper,
They burn the midnight oil as they’re pulling their all-nighters
Running hard on empty as they find their inner fighters
The writers, the writers, the writers
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
*Poor Old John Patrick Robbins.
I’m not sure what he’s done.
When I dropped in at Hello today,
I was very badly stunned.
For I looked high and low,
for the wordsmith’s rambling rants.
A punctuation free zone.
References to spandex pants.
Free the Hello One!
Oh Eliot, hear my cries.
Without that crazy son of a *****
we will lack so many highs.
Tales of madness and mayhem;
poems on self-destruct.
A comedian in a little black hat;
a master of disorderly conduct.
I know he’s learnt his lesson.
I am sure he’d play the game.
A model pupil in class,
poetry being his aim.
On my knees I beg,
to the higher laws above.
Hang on in there Gonzo!
This is one poet,
We surely cannot give up.*
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 8:03 AM UTC
how dare you not have mint chocolate chip available on my birthday, do you know how many years i and my mother
wait
to have the mint chocolate chip ice cream of our life? answer me, baskin robbins
although i know her eating such sweet flavor is only a figment
i can't wish on my birthday candle
the only birthday candle i got
was from a sushi joint
mother, i didn't get a single present
not even now, not even tomorrow
i'm going to
the future with my boyfriend
he's called dean, also god, also gpa
all i want is to die
my boyfriend's real name is diploma
i wonder
if i'd ever want to date a boy
all i want is to die
answer me, baskin robbins
do you also want me to die? you've known me
for all my life
i don't remember
i don't remember
the joy of being born
mother, did i laugh when i escaped your womb? did i even smile?
you must've been aware of that
right
i want to go to a baskin robbins outlet where they have mint chocolate chip
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 5:56 PM UTC
I used to wonder if fire ever felt guilty for its destructive nature but if you think about it a star died to put the morrow in your bones and it was Tom Robbins who taught me that fire is just the reuniting of matter with oxygen
Everything is temporary and I know everything ends and every end is also a start and out of the ashes of beautiful things sprout more beautiful things but I guess what I'm trying to say is I'm not ready for another beginning or maybe I'm not ready for your next beginning but I can't tell you that
Listen, when I was seven I learned to patch up my bones with calcium and superglue but sometimes when the sun comes up too slowly they still rattle when I think about how trivial I am to you
and I know you don't want to hear this but it's the truth of my tears and every inch of my skin
and
.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 4:40 PM UTC
“Albert Camus wrote that the only serious question is whether to **** yourself or not.
Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question is whether time has a beginning and an end.
Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of bed, and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm.
There is only one serious question. And that is: Who knows how to make love stay?
Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to **** yourself.”
― Tom Robbins, Still Life with Woodpecker
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
In the last quarter of the twentieth century, much of the world sat on the edge of an increasingly expensive theater seat waiting for something momentous to occur. Christian aficionados of the Second Coming scenario were convinced that, after two thousand years, the other shoe was about to drop. And five of the era's best-known psychics predicted that Atlantis would soon reemerge from the depths. To this last, Princess Leigh-Cheri responded, "There are three lost continents…we are one: the lovers." In whatever esteem one might hold Princess Leigh-Cheri's thoughts, one must agree that the last quarter of the twentieth century was a severe period for lovers. It was a time a time when romantic relationships took on the character of ice in spring, stranding many little children on jagged and inhospitable floes. Nobody quite knew what to make of the moon anymore
Consider a certain night in August. The moon was so bloated it was about to tip over. For more than an hour, Leigh-Cheri stared into the sky. "Does the moon have a purpose?" She inquired. The same query put to the Remington SL3 typewriter elicited this response: Albert Camus wrote that the only serious question in life is whether to **** yourself or not. Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question is whether time has a beginning and an end. Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of bed, and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm. There is only one serious question. And that is: Who knows how to make love stay? Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to **** yourself. Answer me that and I will ease your mind about the beginning and end of time. Answer me that and I will reveal to you the purpose of the moon.
-La Dispute, One
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
I want to thank Ms. Kann, Pat Robbins and Ms. Farley;
the realtors that convinced me to buy the poetry house.
I want to thank Marie and Lynn,
for warming the hearth. Next time, close the door. Smoke damage is a pain.
I want to thank my parents
for lying; the concrete foundation to this house of cynicism.
I want to thank the neighbors,
without the windows I wouldn’t learn anything.
I want to thank Mr. Lynch, Ginsberg, Carlin & Blake
for the fridge. An excellent place to keep my brain food
I want to thank. Mr. Gabriel and Miss Phoenix,
the only two lights in this house.
Aug 21, 2011
Aug 21, 2011 at 1:59 AM UTC
As a canvas of naked beathy I trace every curve loving every moment when her sweet skin is pressed against
mine.
Her moans A music to fill the darkness of a passion filled night.
Kissing lips tasting the sweetness of desire her body the vesssel of my love.
Inside the softness are plessure building her love free as inside her i drive myself
yerning for this moment to never end.
Love is eternal *** is a action that only brings us togather as one.
A storm of emotions and a valley of plessure as we explore are bodys
togather one night of many of a eternal passion.
Her legs around my waist back against the wall bodys apart souls togather.
her plessure my passion sweat laced slumber as togather we came.
as in gentle slumber i brush her hair aside from her neck.
marvle at my angel so sweet within my arms.
As she turns to me looking so deeply beyond all i am not.
And seeing her lover and her friend she takes my inside her
as we make love through the nights plessure casting aside the past and its
pain.
In her eyes I see all that I never knew i could be.
Her eyes that touch my soul and melt the flesh.
Words unspoken her body so perfect as if made for my arms.
This night eternal you've cast over every day.
Julie Elizbeth Robbins.
You know the ocean of my soul and it yerns for you to forever stay.
I could never say everything you are to me Jules.
are road has been long but all I know is that.
you are my passion and the life blood to my soul.
For we know what other's few ever will
love eternal babydoll John.
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 12:13 PM UTC
The wind is up and roaring mad
Birds and insects fly between its gusts
There is no other way
to get around
They can hear it coming
Between the crying aching limbs
and begging chimes
The wind is having at it
tossing trash cans down the street
Robbins grounded to the lawns
The wind will have its say
or pitch them against the buildings
like a threat
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 12:30 PM UTC
Join me, come share a drink
Of times gone in a blink
Here we sit, lost in thought
Never have we found what we sought
Pour us another, drown this sorrow
All could be better, come tomorrow
They call me the Gonzo poet
Ready, now and always, to show it
I will be here, forever with my friends
Caring for them, because caring never ends
Killing time before time deserts me
Relishing those close, who set me free
Of all the days that have gone past
Broken bottles are always cast
Be your health always bless you
In all the things that you do
Never fear, the Gonzo poet is here
So come and join me now, in another beer
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 11:45 AM UTC
Why try when ya can buy?
I made like seventy comments.
Yeah he donated tweenty bucks and has more
points than I.
Respect dont come with the side of a card.
It's not totally broke.
But to demolish it were trying hard.
Mr Robbins can you just please keep your
mouth shut.
we'll buy ya a case of wild turkey
you drunk *** pain in the but.
Point and poetry really dont mix.
what is this nascar?
Nothing that some strong drinks cant fix.
The doors are locked lets semd in a spy
to see whats going on in that joint.
Hey i just won at beer pong
did that get a point?
Were all about exposer so get your beads.
Avoid the restrooms at the Pub.
look in the red light district of hello
cause everyone's got needs.
I gotta point for logging in and one for
coloring within the lines.
And got no license for like
few thousand dollars in unpaid fines.
Heres a point for me.
And heres a point for you.
With the middle finger a few
fellow poets did point and said they were threw.
Yet here i stay slightly sober
happy to stir the ****
That i refuse to play the game.
Hey how many points do i get to quit?
Drinks are always on the house at HPs
number one joint.
And if ya waste time getting anry with
me then ya really didnt get the point$
Mar 17, 2010
Mar 17, 2010 at 8:39 AM UTC