Lying blind on your sad bed or couch,
underneath them girls of glittering dreams,
winking at their own pitiful reflections,
that you of course fell solidly in love with,
hopelessly cuffed to red pop and chips,
sticking to your filthy worn coveralls,
always right before you finally ask one,
but we know you never actually do,
it’s simply a fun role projected for survival,
yet you’re also very quick to forgive us.
Keep that awesome focus above our residue,
sprinkling them dying lawns on balancing platters,
over toothpicks while swigging the pink foam,
another case behind their curtain waiting,
still late in a botched order after trust at first sight,
crossing your chest with their catchy acronym,
about to dial it back given their sorry results,
except we’ve been painstakingly trained instead,
not to just quit and have to drown in its shame,
when there’s nobody even near your neighborhood.
Surprise them doubters until the end of your life,
decidedly withheld until it eventually arrives,
to their hatred of freedom and liberty on the rocks,
below the marquee tickling your hungry nose,
licking chapped lips prior to that quite fetching smile,
then drenching the road for your inviting blouse,
a center ring in some winner’s myopic fantasy,
with friends now fully impatient to be impressed,
promised hors d’oeuvre as they nibble their fingers,
exactly one each when hailing the supposed attraction.
Sharwrong's Song 