This poem is late coming, but I got on it
Let's get straight humming like a hot sonnet
Where the rhymes at -- the mic's all mine
Scary times for a cat on life number nine
Overmedicated, so I don't have long
Hope I get it straight, not stoned and wrong
Fog-brain don't remember where the spark is
Hot pain's dismemberin' my carcass
Drowning out the magic - the 'Jackson flair'
Down and out, tragic and black down there
The hand with the quill is rough and sore
And the ganja and pills ain't enough no more
I'm stuck urr'day, in mad, addled patience
But fuck, do I pray to man the battle stations
Believe me, folks -- I'm as pissed as y'all
But weebles wobble -- they ain't built to fall
- J.
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