Bustin' Bones With (Big) Babba Jones

 
 
Buddy Bub, what the hell you doin'wit  
              them Bones? **  
**(apologies to mr. Berryman).  
wee have nothing to do  
for a screw like you, and there's  
barely room (for) too few of you  
in the safe-deposit  
box I bought for my own silly scraplets  
to settle into for the time when  
My Time  
first runs amok before running out,  
finally free of "me", (as has been  
the Fate  
of so many other great admirers of  
the grand circuses I built in those  
middle-western towns, back before  
the saints were born to relieve me  
of such commitments).  
 
I th'ought I bought a Night to save me from  my    
own grotesque illumination., but there's little, if nothing,  
to do once you've thrown away the receipt (in such a  
very cavalier fashion).  
 
The circus music hasn't needed you  
for quite a while now, so maybe it's time  
you buried your horns & focus on this  
grief  
that intends to kill you with every broken  
breath,  
and get thee ready (for) the 2nd Coming of  
The Third One /One Fourth  
going.....................in other words, stop  
splittin' hairs, and hoarding our olde-timey
   gold (that never was),  
 
All I needed was a measure of close comfort, but  
all that was left was left was           a modicum of  
                                                              useless speed  
 
 
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