The Thrill
I stand on the hill, not for a thrill
But for a breath of a fresh kill
And
Never mind the man who contemplates
Doin’ away with license plates
He stands alone, anyhow
Baking the cookies of discontent
By the heat of the laundromat vent
Leaving his soul …
then, like in poetry
I go dot dot dot
You know, kinda off center, then I
drop down, then I go …
Leavin’ his soul, partin’ the waters
of the medula oblongata
of
Mankind