A chlorine pool shelters young chaps with hot cheeks,
floured noses, and a fatback moon calls next.
Said you ain't it, sumbitch. Get back
to running the land with man Butch Dogwood
and keep the lunk-heads out the home gate, dig
some goddamn ramps and sit on the mountain's
spring side, flecking through parchments,
mapping the brick neighborhoods below,
Asheville on the shitbags. Rip and cut
some Helter Hymies unto a Southern key,
quell the demon-guises, gun down
shadow figures in the trees cause
Borg Nagmons is my name, holy Gragwock Tantoy,
Hoonty Padbobs shading the whiskey stencil.
Rock beats after we hit the alley to suck
a Prince Albert pipe, lucky wombats in the sight
of smart-ass wicks. Shut the mouth
on county propositions (it's all jail). Be pro,
head back southern time on some pintos
hoppin in the bowl. Sad as an umlaut, Sickster Prince,
I'll steal your face quicker than central Florida
and ice blue springs, floating on tubes of forgiveness,
booking the crystal hooks, plotting pork chunks.
Can the chrome come while we run long?
Blow your stacks out on the city surf.