End the cursor,
World of delusion,
Wearing your famous
White glove which
You used to judge
Our deeds.
What is going down
In that hayloft you
Call a head?
Garbage guts,
Carbuncular capital
Pussing up the place.
I got a job as a janitor
At a Vegas chapel
With its drive-thru
Tunnel of vows, mopping
Up the pink champagne
Of the inquiring tourists.
I sat neither here nor there
Overlooking an alley
Of graffiti in a drunken
Night that rambled
On and on about wanting
To quit its day job
And get something
In data processing.
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