Monograms on my towels.
These are not my initails.
Who is this, in my home
stealing from my lowly throne?
These things are mine
These toys in line
Marching onward, ho!
Keys in backs powered not by springs
but wine,
heavy fruit laden vine
wraps like infant snake
covering my ineptitude.
Onward, ho!
Monkeys banging cymbals
hop west
leaving craters with their footsteps,
making me crawl behind the giants
while the snake grows teeth in place of gums
All I'm asking is to be true
when i stop,
quit, loving you.
'Cause when we got old
You got saved
and i?
-i just got cold
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