Art
The crazy old men always get their way,
Can make Big Changes in all small things,
Stoned enough, drunk enough, pens and mouths quick enough
To dribble nonsense onto paper the way they
Piss their names into the snow.
Oh, they can ramble!,
About speed, about sex, about The Man,
About the loose and lovely women they
Laid in Mexico and
Left, swollen,
It was necessary, you see,
They weren’t quite sure what kind of
Fathers they would be,
And in this reckless fallow there lies
Art.
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