They’re not there to pick you up
In fact it’s just the opposite
Like the little lamb stuck for
A split second before momma struts,
Then taps, then pounds, the ground
1 in 9, she hits, that sound
All the world’s your stage
In those tiny walls
Silly willies strutting through your mini malls
while calypso music streams,
in your fetid wet dreams
Those worn seams on your mini-skirt
Seems to have attracted a micro-stream,
scream, ding-a-ling,
Ding-dong. Macro-aggression.
Master then micro-control your shamalangadingdong
Everything I sing will be to your misgiving
Micro-offense, to give the chance of defense
Rather than spell your negligence
Rock on the wall of your space fence
Even the old ladies speak of your diligence
Those frogs-a’cooking make a mad stench
Then, rock the wall of dense S-Oil
See who lasts a fortnight
Or, at all
Why?
Not because we care, at all
If, Boredom as our Master never spoke
Or, Soul as our deepest Mystery never woke
Kensho Homestead 