I’m Not Sorry I Lied

There is nothing here I wish to write about
Nothing of note happens, except we wake up
To struggle for everything,
Even air to breathe I tell you
The sun is too hot, oppressive even.
Words don’t flow so well
When your skull is aflame,
Your skin tingles
Without the possibility of orgasm at the end
And the sound in your head
Is the music of angry horns,
Angry men screaming obscenities
At other angry men.

Everybody needing a drink,
A shower with soap,
A good night's sleep,
Cheap dollar,
Sex that costs nothing
But time, the price of a rubber hat
To forestall the plague;
Unruly towhead children gallivanting,
Intoxicated by the possibility of adventure,
Destined for disappointment,
Perhaps a little conversation
To make like that was the point all along.

There’s quite a bit to be written
About Sunday mornings,
I will leave that to some other person.
I have enough to deal with already,
Why add to it blasphemy?
People lose heads over that around here
Twenty eight years I've kept this head,
I'd like to have it a while longer.
But for you who’s taken the time,
Don’t leave your windows open
On Sunday mornings,
You will pay for it with your sleep,
And be sorely tempted to launch missiles
At saints in worship.
That's worse than blasphemy.
I wonder what you’d lose for that.

If per chance you find out,
Leave me a note
Leave my name out of it.
Around these parts it pays not to be found
In the company of those who throw things.
Unless your target is one of those
Sinful homosexual people causing famine,
earthquakes, wars and things.
You can throw things at them all you want.
Or find yourself a Shiite,
They make for good piñatas
Best still, get yourself a woman.
But be sure to pay the dowry first.

You’re still here so now you know
That first line was a lie, second one too ,
There’s quite a bit I could write about.
These days I cannot care enough
And I’m not sorry I lied.
If you're offended
Find a hobby, or a piñata,
Or go to your nearest cathedral
You’ll find a gay man to throw things at.