Ipecac

Maybe why there frankly ain’t no cuts where you’re concerned,
keeping them coming out at cruising speed until you bark when,
lifted from your prevailing rear on through their glass sanctuary,
blasting with a ruckus of howling streets way before record time.

Here drops them often promises stating that it ain’t really too long,
boy, you haven’t seen it tough and you honestly won’t ever either,
no matter what your jealous buddies might whine to throw you off,
since I ain’t about to make no fool of both of us over your signature.

Or a tight sequin skirt firmly bent across their lens of oozing foam,
above them knife scratches and reflective washes raising the table,
from below obviously because dudes gotta rock and roll this place,
as happy hour is sharply closing and ladies’ choice is now targeted.

Knocking them lamps into splinters for dirty boots and broken heels,
with their hardened rough croons and beats complimenting the rhythm,
saturating this stream of exhaust from all rims on toward center stage,
and a minute interlude to show appreciation for the tenacious labor.

Turn your heads, folks, as they flash their entrance from back to front,
only a few dollars for two bites inside your lonely tender biscuits, guys,
where there ain’t no crumbs left even for them scrawny-minded rats,
saluting a decree of respect just prior to scattering into resigned holes.

Your real thing dribbling as a crass joke ineptly played for stiff change,
always hearing your mamma explaining carefully while giving you a bath,
on to that soft towel and sweet kisses gliding your refreshed virgin skin,
now shorting it all to sneer with faceless boisterous relics you met tonight.