They only practice medicine.

All I wanted was a shower
a nice, hot shower
but that wasn't in the cards, and meanwhile
my mom was laid up in a hospital bed
with a lovely morphine drip
to ease the titanium pain
where her knees once were.

Did I mention that ice-lined trees remind me
of Vermont postcards and maple syrup?
There.
I mentioned it.
On to more of these strange adventures in basketweaving.

Somewhere on a greasy urinal
Hanoi Jane is screaming out
as a biker lets fly on her face.
That North Vietnamese anti-aircraft gun nest
can't help her now.

The current state of affairs leads me to believe
that The Man Upstairs is also into golden showers.
Stay POSI, Ponyboy.

The movie about that brave little toaster
was probably the most depressing thing
I'd encountered until I found out what certain anatomy
was really for, other than urination.

A coworker told me his wife didn't like
the nipple clamps he brought home
but the ostrich tickler
went over huge. Me, I stick to
Modified Mish after dining at the Y
until there's a key change in the porno music.

A refrigerator cluttered with rotten food on the inside
and covered with last year's magnetic calendars on the outside
is exactly why I need to go back to work, but hey--

You, my friend, have been misdiagnosed, and
I wouldn't belong to any club that would have me as a member.