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Blinded by color not its light
just the funnel to puzzle a fellow
right tin hair of a yellow dread
a head to wipe the numbers on your road
and I apologize for bleeding

Might be the pen might be
the two-ply and the avenues after
the erasers to cover
my Mike had polished head
hers a milk bun all from
Chasing Houses in My Livingroom

Mustard brown folks in the hot seat
they’ll blow the whistle on your
largeness no matter how fine
and there’s nothing to eat on this gantry
your painted tie will never fly
waitress hand me the bun

Was kind of tight under my head
but dry at least
mortar tipped to the right side
gives on thoughts
a parrot next in the partial tree

I don’t know how it came out
over me all three noses
a hospital wiping out of the forces
and finally brought the car
to a coast