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.