Type Dancing

Listen to that Godman
Laying it all down like
He knew me, when
The truth is that from
The first squirt of the Old Man’s
Jissom up the Old Lady’s Glory Hole
To the last squirt of blood
Beat by my battered heart
I always strayed far from
His Hallelujah Halls.
Hell, I started out as a squirt
And stayed a squirt all through
My bent-boned bowlegged days,
Jeering at the ectomorphs,
Cause the air was always
Purer down here.
Just listen to that jive
Being spewed by that
Reverse-collared fraud,
Telling the fools I was
Now a Scribe for God
(whoever she is).
Sheeit, everyone knows
The words I scribbled,
Those poems squirted from pens,
Clanked onto paper by steel rods,
And lit up on computer screens,
Were always mine alone.
They’re what lifted me
Above the crowd,
Chanting out loud,
“I’m alive, man, alive
And will be even after I die!”