If you want you can have it but it gets hazy mid-way thru.
My behaviour is unfit for anyone expecting to run for office.
My social-carbon-retro-hetero record is marred.
Now I’ll never be married.
I just May have invited a new style,
but you’ll be damned if
your hands on it.
You can’t get in here without a pass.
The pathology needs one part meltdown,
a sliver of suicide tendinitis,
on you when you practice the art of
dancing without the crowd,
within them, around them, then thru.
All you want is them and all they want is you,
you and you
don’t seem to pay any more attention
and more; no more.
I picked up a few ya basta’s.
A few tickets got pirated and ticket masters
rightly shaven left from the Right
downloaded, at the right
time, uploaded in the right hand.
All you want is money,
we’re flipping switches on.
So the dance can keep,
the dancer keeps watch.
Keep the joints ready on a mat
in rooms like quiet, praying Muslim.
You’ll think you saw that coming.