B.S. Johnson
Joe Pernice
Write a book of debt everyone must pay
Exact revenge in a grotesque way
Build a Taj Mahal on vacation time
The kiddies frag the sap before the ink is dry
It's as good as any joke I know
Write a book of leaves shuffled by the wind
Two unbound lives, orderless and grim
Set up to ensure failing miserably
Sublimate a world into poetry
The make sure your last intention's known
You were dead by forty-two
There'd be no rigid form for you
Jammed into a plot where you never would fit
A tiny manuscript with a hole cut in it
As you drifted off to sleep, my mother set bedtime for me
Terrycloth robe with a hand-me-down fit
Playing in the bath with a warship in it, yeah