This Pen Is A Piece Of Shit
How am I supposed to write under conditions like these?
by Rev. Dr. A. Jacob Hassler
Barreling motorcar roar through my alley, please.
Wake me, shake me from my world nocturne
Turn me, burn me; dump me in my urn.
Scatter me onto the earth of a continent never traveled,
Where barefoot folk can carry me and grind me into the gravel.
There will be no more roaring motorcars, no more pens and barrels.
No more off-key motherfuckers singing Christmas carols...
I have seen my world of life and strife, rapture, indifference and peril.
Your world will thank me when I am gone, and pray that I was sterile.