the wandering pants
 
 
 
my pants were not a factor
 
in the everyfday training of the bird
 
 
 
the small cocktail smelled like a plastic prune
 
the plastic prune smelled like the bird
 
 
 
birds of a feather eat pencils together
 
i saw a plant-like bridge to the west
 
 
 
i tower abouve the small people
 
i shit on their little, fat faces
 
 
 
they are shit and i am god
 
i smell like a plastic prune
 
 
 
vincent price sells porno magazines
 
because he lost his wallet last night
 
 
 
my pants are now safe at home
 
i saw them walking down sixth street
 
 
 
they were stinking of gin
 
so were the priests and parrots
 
 
 
 
 
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