i talk to the moon with a fork and a spoon eating a piece of it's shine sweetly telling my mom i'm chomping up mars in june
and
life's short so pardon my view for stretching thought across scandinavian stars til it grew
i'm kneeling in an awkward pew caught where cars and shoes are martyring dudes and blood's darkening martin's views and mamas ride the col' train harlem groove on crack pipes' tracks right til her vocal bag pipes crack and let out awkward blues
where baby's babies begin wit innuendo, indo, gin, gentle skin, then grins grow sin? no, but men in low, out fast, and in slow out fast when sea men blow then don't put out cash when little men grow