Slow ride … take it easy? Hell no, I'm all shook up.

You know we were once dancing down the street with our suede blue eyes — bopping to green onions. Now we have bad breath. We sing: Here she comes again. We cry a world of tears. 

You can't say what you don't know. You know later on won't work no more. It took a world of trouble; it took a world of verbs and conjunctions to get back here. But it's always like starting over. Poop aloof. Poop a Popsicle — root beer.

In this open mad dog saloon we are served alligator stew. We chew, we spit, we digest, and we drink the cool water flow. Barefoot girls dance in the moonlight. Hobos count the bullfrogs. Yet they still tell us things we don't know. Whiskey bottles and oak trees be damned. Picture what will be as one little problem confronts you — a monkey wearing lederhosen is on your back. Type fast. Collate collages, just one more fix might do the trick; Ooooh that smell … the smell of death around us.

Breaking news: Once there was this kid who got into an accident and couldn't come to school, but when he finally came back, his hair had turned from black into bright white; his pre-story told was still loading. An insane kangaroo screamed. A manic mannequin with a manicotti mustache slapped the kangaroo. More later …

Left to some too many days are really weekends. From the darkness we watch the tragically hip poets ruminate rhubarb pie à la mode topped with strawberry sushi. They don't know what's up or down. Neither do the silhouettes walking counter-spiral against the stormy night.  They need help as a flicker of a thousand lights calls from another time — another place. It's so bright; we need celebrity internet rehab sunglasses.

Oh man, give me a word, give me a sign, show me where to look, tell me what will I find. Don't be a sarcastic mister know it all.  Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you ’cause with the birds I’ll share this lonely view — or maybe I'll just punt petunias 'cause in the end this isn't the end my friends.

The blue bus is calling us ...