| Just another Sunday | |
| Paddle-boat ride | |
| on a man-made lake | |
| with another lady stranger. | |
| If I remain lost and die on a cross, | |
| at least I wasn't born in a manger. | |
| I can sense, somewhere right | |
| now I'm being prayed for. | |
| Seems like I always arrive | |
| at the same shore | |
| from where my sails set | |
| maybe with one less lady | |
| than my vessel left with. | |
| Is that a threat? | |
| Oh, I've stayed scarce | |
| this past year, yes. | |
| But be assured in unrest: | |
| I'm unavoidable, like death | |
| this Christmas. Is this twisted? | |
| Why be upset? I never said I | |
| didn't have syphilis, | |
| Miss Listless -- Hard like the | |
| bricks I pound my fists with. | |
| I mean, she's hard like the bricks | |
| that I pound with my fists. | |
| This is "The fall of Mr. Fifths, | |
| forged for the hordes | |
| and the ladies and lords, | |
| set with fat chords | |
| in modern English. | |
| I know, I know, | |
| There's nothing more appealing | |
| than the sound of high heels | |
| down the marble tile hallways | |
| of your districts one alloted | |
| city-funded Steiner school, | |
| Bilingual or Montessori, | |
| followed by a single | |
| high-pitched scream, | |
| followed by breaking glass. | |
| But could your anger be mapped | |
| into an interpretive dance | |
| to a trip-hop track? Could it be | |
| bowed out on strings? | |
| Or strung into a pattern for a God's eye to bring | |
| to your alma-mater's holiday | |
| fundraiser boutique thing? |
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