Pretty little lines of silliness, drip down from open mouth
Wetting the pavement, frightening pigeons in hot pursuit
Why say them? They mean nothing, are nothing, but waste
Wasted space, wasted air, wasted nerve, wasted time
Pretty silly lines drawn on faces, above eyes, around
and lips, corralling petroleum by-producted sexy pout
In the supermarket, stand in them, on them, searching
Hoping to stripe one across another one, win the prize
Why stand? Why not step, across, over, and away, now?
Must have it, must consume, must craft answers cunningly
Make it to the next line, ushered in like cows, showing teets
Waiting for the pretty silly line that wins the prize heifer
For the night? For the year? For the lifetime love affair?
Who knows? Stand in line, step up, take your chances.
I believe it’s all fairly self-explanatory. Then, again, I believe a lot of things.