None of the bugs would have legs,
And thus,
Can’t couldn’t get too far,
From the back of your shoe
Flung to me as a weapon
In a quick declaration of war.

In the cottage of dreams
We’d exhale rainbow smoke
And be off our gourds
Dancing all night –
In the forest of fire,
On the cliff of pure vision,
You are there – you are puffy and bright.

At your step’s hesitation –
Doing hesitation step –
An oboe solo hydrolyzes through –
It’s the theme for a sleep-deprived traveler at the door –
And it’s
Someone from the city
Who’s inevitably shitty
And will clearly just impede upon the fun...

We hack his head off
And sleep in the blood.

PLEASE EXCUSE ME
THIS POEM IS UNFINISHED AND UNEDITED.
THIS POEM IS UNDERCOOKED AND LACKING GARNISH.

text by Spencer LaBute

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