So, clearly, no one can shimmy, pipe-down
into mortar. He gets plenty
without me. Shimmy, Ra. He—
love made sweet the minstrel. Drown himself,
down the pipe. Blows away, so much, down. Oh—
people like to look at me. Come on.
Let’s be seen—
swinging from our ankles.
Little Lyric
Published
The Failures of a Non-Performer 