Twist around and say
Gotcha!
To the parolees of taboo nature
And failures that wander
In unknown charters and
Hostiles built for one.
They too have dirt in their teeth.
Wash your mouth out,
And find a map to your local
Psychic, who can grant you
Foresight and clarity into
Whatever remarks suit the day
And know
Too much TV is
Gonna kill ya, kid.
Rots the brain.
So flood the anchors and
Rip the knob off.
Play some tunes,
It’s all reckless anywhere
And we all turn out to be
Zero.
petrichor - archive 