this wknd i may just swing by and stare atcha pretty pikchas...
Weekends mean booty calls and pharmaceuticals – not to be outdone, the fun is in the numbers and the drummers that beat the back of my brain with their bass and exquisite taste in tunes – In my case I can’t do much but bounce at the chance to be there or be square flossing with the pubic hair of a bear because I don’t care - really it’s what’s inside that counts and I bounce and I bounce and ounce after ounce I lose count of the sounds that make me grin from ear to ear and from beer to beer – I fear that the last thing I’ll ever hear is the "o dear" from the mouth of my rear when my ass takes over my face and I talk shit over here - No Fear Follower-Fuck is here, away with the cool kids and home with the queers– this ass will save you from your coke-induced tears and grip your glow-sticks and rears like Free Willy in grade 4 all you nineties-bred whores that get down with new wave and sell out just to score – I’m a bore and an ass and a helluva blast and I promise the worst of the worst will not pass, and the world will not heal and the Jacksons wont dance and the best of the best will want you in their pants – but the scariest thing is the internet buzz that surrounds us and binds us like liquor and drugs, because words can live on beyond paper and stone and the world can find out who you hate, who you bone…
