Something’s frazzled the software.
You tear hairs out by the root,
shoot the shit with some grizzled
hard ass from out West.
There isn’t one place to rest in this town
where you won’t end up
drowning in scabies.
You hear babies crooning
from further-off streets, someone
beating a car horn in four-four time.
Meter declines rhymes sexual advances,
but the night is right
for second chances.
Your recent flights of fancy
barely left the ground.
Here’s to another round of drinks.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 