Nails

Sore.
Cold.
A heap of dirty socks and underwear
serve as a perfect bed
after 80 ounces of high octane
malt liquor
and
40 hours
of singing that
same old skull splitting tune.


This is it young man.
Whipe that bewildered look from your face.

The emergency exit.

The split-tongued
good riddance speech
To another town
another year
another home.

No time to rehearse.

This world is yours.

For better or worse.