Greener and cleaner and sprockety spokes
Straight from the sidewalk to smoking down tokes
The world, my oyster? I should think not
All I can eat is what’s cooked in the pot
Muddled spurty writing in the middle of the night
With turgid heartbeats rising to say it’s not right
Yellow night-lit windows and democratic whores
Staring at the reddish Moon and sucking down s’mores