The Fall of Mr. Fifths

Just another Sunday

Paddle-boat ride

on a man-made lake

with another lady stranger.

If I remain lost and die on a cross,

at least I wasn't born in a manger.

I can sense, somewhere right

now I'm being prayed for.

Seems like I always arrive

at the same shore

from where my sails set

maybe with one less lady

than my vessel left with.

Is that a threat?



Oh, I've stayed scarce

this past year, yes.

But be assured in unrest:

I'm unavoidable, like death

this Christmas. Is this twisted?

Why be upset? I never said I

didn't have syphilis,

Miss Listless -- Hard like the

bricks I pound my fists with.

I mean, she's hard like the bricks

that I pound with my fists.

This is "The fall of Mr. Fifths,

forged for the hordes

and the ladies and lords,

set with fat chords

in modern English.



I know, I know,

There's nothing more appealing

than the sound of high heels

down the marble tile hallways

of your districts one alloted

city-funded Steiner school,

Bilingual or Montessori,

followed by a single

high-pitched scream,

followed by breaking glass.

But could your anger be mapped

into an interpretive dance

to a trip-hop track? Could it be

bowed out on strings?

Or strung into a pattern for a God's eye to bring

to your alma-mater's holiday

fundraiser boutique thing?