Sir Edny Reed uplifts his nose as he passes Tuesday’s garbage,
A pitiful pile of stubborn alcoholics and druggies,
His wingtip shoes glide over their rotting corpses
And gold glitters in his eyes as he approaches a comfortable eternity.
His position gives him credence to be better than these slobs
And he need not ever pretend they are people.
His Rolls, his wallet, his suit and his Russian-import wife
Will forever cause him to forget that a nose upturned
Is a nose in danger of reaching backwards
Till it smells the shit in the broad-ass behind of its owner.
Discussion
No comments yet.