Sleepy in a midnight chair,
You’re ringside for a wordy rap,
The stink of second-story air,
Polluted droning sounds like this:

(m) Because I thought you would take it seriously.
(f) All the same, it never occurred to me that there’s a way we can find out
(m) I can’t imagine who would do such a thing
(f) It was my parents
(m) Wow, that’s not right
(f) You probably don’t even know my parents
(m) It’s true, I only know what they do. Why was it so easy?
(f) Yet, it was not a “high priority”
(m) Right
(f) They told me it wasn’t going to last
(m) He doesn’t know Theresa
(f) He walked right behind her
(m) The Jugs’ are here!
(f) I think they left

Meanwhile taped Marlene sings,
White girls prance. A lounging boxer,
Red gloves, red trunks, sprawls under
Revolving disco ball dots of white light.

A full sax section resolves to a diminished
Piano chord. A slide guitarist cranks
Live as Billy and the boys warm up behind
A terrible Dean Martin baritone sound check.

You were told this is a rockin’ band,
But they slowed the arrangements to “dirge funk,”
The latest craze amongst the family and lovers
Who rank 82 percent of the small but loyal crowd.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2002. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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