One saffron, refried day our planet will have its last fling
In the shape of a used condom's outline.
Until then I ride the bicycle like a hangover from work
& Fingers long enough to be drawn-out fairy-tales
Scratch the back of the illustrated day, demanding no reciprocity.
A saxophone of doors will be there,
Constructed of fuck-lacquered dollar bills.
2 dogs made out of tin will bark out ordered puzzles
& Rip the roots like witch-hair silently of all the trees.
As usual, somebody will find a dead body
Or die themselves dying to be found.
Chairs & love are immediate things
& Only ass can keep them there,
But everyone can go sit on the future
And mean a toilet as the end.