By Torpedo or Crohn's (DNTEL Remix)

Sleeping late*
I hear the sad horns of labor trucks sigh.
My neighbor walks by,
high heels click dry like half-a-proud horse down Brook.
I hear somebody's babbling I mistook for a cavalry,
Whispering "victory" to the sparks in their kindling.
But all their green woods wet,
And unmet as of yet by the gases of flame,
Pressing against the pending physics of my passed down last name.
Living in the tear between two spaces, condemned;
In one of the many places you're not, I am.
Hiding from my friends in the bathroom at 'ThriftTown'
To write this tune down
Today after lunch,
I got sick and blew chunks all over my new shoes
In a lot behind 'Whole Foods'.
This is a new kind of blues.
And what about losing limb or loved one in a duel dissatisfies you of seems just?
As a kid I did not shit my pants much;
Why start now with this stuff?
And I do not bluff, second caller gets bit by a dog or Jeff Dahmer.
Kisses or stitches?
No mitt for these pitches.
Lone Pone one, master of the cheap pun.
If I'm not raw, I'm just a bit underdone.
But I'd be O.K., cool as a rail, if they'd just let us have healthfood in hell.
Good heaven's background radiation and the black arts of waiting.
Not the same since I switched my hair-part and started shaving.
Got hexed-- my hidden hair-gone corners.
Oh, I'll never be a joiner, life long local foreigner, I.
Raw-lung, homegrown fake in coed naked choir;
Second tenor, highest rise, blessed clever compromister.
I'll be proudly mouthing 'watermelon' every song.
I put the phone to my ear but all I hear's a dial tone.
Will they map my skull and wrap my bones when my wig is gone?
No. I'll go unknown by torpedo or Crohn's,
Only those evil live to see their own likeness in stone.