I was raised in a shed

Tearwithout Zoloft in cans

Or buy me Oreos

To deluge my sinking

Ink runs from the corners of my joust

(I am jesting of course)

My handful of sorrow lags thru my crosshairs

My bow is a Sheila sarcastic as papa’s little-dumpling-boy

My bagful of mindful poses in cyclones

& greater than Kansas

My skin is a rhyme I tinker with papa

But papa never believes in my poems

In a city of woe I motor towards nothing

Driven insane by papa’s New World.