A Tip of the Hat

pick up the sack it's time we hit the road and dreamed of 
     the           impossibility          of            life in this country. 
      of roaches, reichs, reds, blues, pop rocks, 
and the incandescent nature of inflatable tire irons galvanizing sleepy ferris wheels along the green mountaintops of mud-caked stompers of civilization. 
I've had enough. 
   take that cowardly flippant flunkie back to the shotgun shack 
with the washtub whittling away childhood, whippings, adulthood, and between smacks of naiveté 
on the slow trick uptick, downtick... 

Stuff that galloping, heel clicking, horny toad with enough morals to dam that liar atop onion towers of camaraderie; carcinogenic like the fibers of the infinitely reliable spheres of impudence. It's a masquerade for the licked chins of slippery canaries.