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tearing the rag off the bush again
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I’m one sorry sad sack of sloppy sheep shit

                                                            

A milk sodden frosted mini-wheat falls off the edge of a spoon, splashes on my naked chest, rolls down my protruding belly and sinks into the recess of my navel.  That’s about all I can manage today. 

I can shovel my face, roll cigarettes and sip vodka greyhounds with tar stained hands, while my favorite shirt has been riddled with holes by tiny flaming logs of Prince Albert tobacco, and I feel like a popper. 

I’m one sorry sad sack

Dying June Bugs bang against window screens as I mash an invading Dirt-Dobbler into the carcinogenic carpet with my ragged Wallaby.  There’s a taunting dirty-faced rug rat at the end of the street that I can’t do anything about.

I’m paranoid that my blood may be contaminated by a West Nile Mosquito.  My Springier Spaniel has a bloated tick on her back.  And the ice cubes in my cocktail are sticking together causing me to drink like a retarded drunk. 

I’m one sorry sad sack of sloppy sheep shit       

My only friend tonight is Lightnin’ Hopkins and he’s dead.  I got mojo in my left hand and no mojo in my right.  It's a pain I haven’t felt since my French girlfriend and I rolled down a hill together twenty-six-years-ago.

My right hand was benevolently busted in six places forcing me to become a maimed ambidextrous ass wiper, as if I never got it right the first time.  And I’m tampered by a dirty mouth country cunt, because I can’t get it up. 

I’m one sorry sad sack of sloppy ship shit, suckling sunflowers     

I met three girls in an Indian Casino and bet my last dollar only to roll snake eyes.  I can’t stomp tarantulas fast enough and the doctor says my HDL level is low, so I better get some exercise before I fall facedown in a field of poisonous willies.

I’ve never owned a necktie.  My busted shoelaces are tied in granny knots and my twelve-year-old nephew has more money in his piggybank than I do.  But I can still wrestle him down to the ground and make him cry, “Uncle!” 

I’m one sorry sad sack of sloppy sheep shit, suckling sunflowers, sweltering in a sighing submarine, minus one added by zero.

 
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