Member-only story
…mere mania
Come gimme shelter
From glass beads of sweat and swelter
Needing mother’s little helper
Midst English gardens and midday suns
A dead dog’s helter-skelter
I peruse a pensive course
Showing little remorse
But make escape the flagrant source
It’s way up high
Like Lucy in the sky
Faking diamonds in my eyes
Just to melt upon the breeze
It’s one hundred eighty degrees
Newspaper taxis have gone to grieve
Set ablaze the Pyrenees
So good luck with all those trees
Better to be a walrus on the seven seas
I can’t breathe
Cook eggs now on the streets
Marshmallow pies at eve
I’m seeing stars
Need not go far
I’m sticking to all that black gooey tar
Rusting strings on old guitars
As sweat pours from old scars
Babies are bawling
Governments forestalling
Double-talk has become endless gnawing
Prophets of doom have won their calling
And so, God love ‘em
Only a genius could’ve seen that comin’
Not being woke, no longer a joke
Turn up the AC before you go broke
And on the way out
Let’s twist and shout…be prepared
For the fall of the old boy scout
