222

Ten years ago back at 222: beer soaking carpet as we hid from Doug and the Duke,
and we tried not to puke.
The fire siren screams. «Ahh! The atmosphere!»
Bravo and I feed chip sandwiches to Geer to stomp out em ach. Still don’t know
if it was too late.
And I know it’s just the past. You don’t need a home to be a horse’s ass.
Let’s stay up and practice all through the night. Fatass said if masturbating
is wrong he doesn’t want to be right. Well, neither do I.
Gorilla suits, piercings, and colored spiked hair,
embezzling money, whoring around — we fine tuned our vices there.
Live on our couch Jim. We won’t care.
And I know it’s just the past. You don’t need a home to be a horse’s ass.
And in these days when we look back surely we can’t help ourselves but laugh.