Excuse me, sir
There seems to be
Some sort of yacht
Growing out of your
Face
There seems to be
Some sort of
Disposable income
Clumped in landmines
On your lawn
There appears to be
A cluster of silverfish
In the clutches of psychosis
Starving angrily
In your mud room
There may also be
Gentlemen of stature
Beards of silken wonder
Touching themselves
Inappropriately
As blood-soaked ascots
Rain from the dead
Sky
Sir
I'm sorry
No shirt
No shoes
No service
No exit
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