SEPTEM FAITH
Angels are falling by the dozen. Having coaxed hope from men and children, they've got Catholic guilt and yearn for a flavored vodka to put out the flames. Torn away from contemplation, they smoke and drink and call in sick. They know that this won't mix well with their Pfizer candy and blind faith won't pay the bills, but the leader of the free world keeps his fellatio secret and preaches peace with firepower and lottery tickets.
Penny said, "I know things will get better", then fell out of bed, bruising her face on a piggy bank.
Ezekiel hopped a bus and a train with one ticket to nowhere but the blur away from his head that was beginning to talk about moving to a better city anyway. The needle is beyond E and bounces every time we hit a pothole.
When angels turn to fear and the glue's not as sticky, I searches for an answer to signal me home, I heard an old man say to his eggs today.
The bomb technician was a poodle that said, "I hope I know what I'm doing", before his matter painted the white walls with crimson and fur. That from the chattering bush in Tower Grove Park, as a horse clip-clopped through the sky, hot on the trail of a giant carrot, bobbing on the end of a string tied to a stick which nobody can see.
A hipster prints out bumper stickers that read, "It's an egg, not an omelet".
Sweating, Luther awakes.
Sun creeps through the blinds and he slides his thumb over the "on" button.
The chorus sings, "Why does there have to be a morning after?"
The DJ croaks.
Luther knows he'll feel better if he gets up and swallows a whale's load of cold water and bicycles hands free through the streets and alleys in the afternoon sun, looking at the despair in every set of eyes and maybe a smile from those who think they're getting away with something.
He'll hawk up two or three barrooms and wash the rest of it off when he gets home. He likes the way it laughs as it swirls down the drain and the way that laughter echoes in the
shower.
Everything's gonna be all right...until he can't do this in the middle of the day any longer. Or until he has to explain it to someone who has no idea or would rather not be reminded that Angels are falling by the dozen. Having coaxed hope from men and children, they've got Catholic guilt and yearn for a flavored vodka to put out the flames. Torn away from contemplation, they smoke and drink and call in sick. They know that this won't mix well with their Pfizer candy and blind faith won't pay the bills, but the leader of the free world keeps his fellatio secret and preaches peace with firepower and lottery tickets.
Penny said, "I know things will get better", then fell out of bed, bruising her face on a piggy bank.
Ezekiel hopped a bus and a train with one ticket to nowhere but the blur away from his head that was beginning to talk about moving to a better city anyway. The needle is beyond E and bounces every time we hit a pothole.
When angels turn to fear and the glue's not as sticky, I searches for an answer to signal me home, I heard an old man say to his eggs today.
The bomb technician was a poodle that said, "I hope I know what I'm doing", before his matter painted the white walls with crimson and fur. That from the chattering bush in Tower Grove Park, as a horse clip-clopped through the sky, hot on the trail of a giant carrot, bobbing on the end of a string tied to a stick which nobody can see.
A hipster prints out bumper stickers that read, "It's an egg, not an omelet".
Sweating, Luther awakes.
Sun creeps through the blinds and he slides his thumb over the "on" button.
The chorus sings, "Why does there have to be a morning after?"
The DJ croaks.
Luther knows he'll feel better if he gets up and swallows a whale's load of cold water and bicycles hands free through the streets and alleys in the afternoon sun, looking at the despair in every set of eyes and maybe a smile from those who think they're getting away with something.
He'll hawk up two or three barrooms and wash the rest of it off when he gets home. He likes the way it laughs as it swirls down the drain and the way that laughter echoes in the
shower.
Everything's gonna be all right...until he can't do this in the middle of the day any longer. Or until he has to explain it to someone who has no idea or would rather not be reminded that Angels are falling by the dozen. Having coaxed hope from men and children, they've got Catholic guilt and yearn for a flavored vodka to put out the flames. Torn away from contemplation, they smoke and drink and call in sick. They know that this won't mix well with their Pfizer candy and blind faith won't pay the bills, but the leader of the free world keeps his fellatio secret and preaches peace with firepower and lottery tickets.
Penny said, "I know things will get better", then fell out of bed, bruising her face on a piggy bank.
Ezekiel hopped a bus and a train with one ticket to nowhere but the blur away from his head that was beginning to talk about moving to a better city anyway. The needle is beyond E and bounces every time we hit a pothole.
When angels turn to fear and the glue's not as sticky, I searches for an answer to signal me home, I heard an old man say to his eggs today.
The bomb technician was a poodle that said, "I hope I know what I'm doing", before his matter painted the white walls with crimson and fur. That from the chattering bush in Tower Grove Park, as a horse clip-clopped through the sky, hot on the trail of a giant carrot, bobbing on the end of a string tied to a stick which nobody can see.
A hipster prints out bumper stickers that read, "It's an egg, not an omelet".
Sweating, Luther awakes.
Sun creeps through the blinds and he slides his thumb over the "on" button.
The chorus sings, "Why does there have to be a morning after?"
The DJ croaks.
Luther knows he'll feel better if he gets up and swallows a whale's load of cold water and bicycles hands free through the streets and alleys in the afternoon sun, looking at the despair in every set of eyes and maybe a smile from those who think they're getting away with something.
He'll hawk up two or three barrooms and wash the rest of it off when he gets home. He likes the way it laughs as it swirls down the drain and the way that laughter echoes in the
shower.
Everything's gonna be all right...until he can't do this in the middle of the day any longer. Or until he has to explain it to someone who has no idea or would rather not be reminded that Angels are falling by the dozen. Having coaxed hope from men and children, they've got Catholic guilt and yearn for a flavored vodka to put out the flames. Torn away from contemplation, they smoke and drink and call in sick. They know that this won't mix well with their Pfizer candy and blind faith won't pay the bills, but the leader of the free world keeps his fellatio secret and preaches peace with firepower and lottery tickets.
Penny said, "I know things will get better", then fell out of bed, bruising her face on a piggy bank.
Ezekiel hopped a bus and a train with one ticket to nowhere but the blur away from his head that was beginning to talk about moving to a better city anyway. The needle is beyond E and bounces every time we hit a pothole.
When angels turn to fear and the glue's not as sticky, I searches for an answer to signal me home, I heard an old man say to his eggs today.
The bomb technician was a poodle that said, "I hope I know what I'm doing", before his matter painted the white walls with crimson and fur. That from the chattering bush in Tower Grove Park, as a horse clip-clopped through the sky, hot on the trail of a giant carrot, bobbing on the end of a string tied to a stick which nobody can see.
A hipster prints out bumper stickers that read, "It's an egg, not an omelet".
Sweating, Luther awakes.
Sun creeps through the blinds and he slides his thumb over the "on" button.
The chorus sings, "Why does there have to be a morning after?"
The DJ croaks.
Luther knows he'll feel better if he gets up and swallows a whale's load of cold water and bicycles hands free through the streets and alleys in the afternoon sun, looking at the despair in every set of eyes and maybe a smile from those who think they're getting away with something.
He'll hawk up two or three barrooms and wash the rest of it off when he gets home. He likes the way it laughs as it swirls down the drain and the way that laughter echoes in the
shower.
Everything's gonna be all right...until he can't do this in the middle of the day any longer. Or until he has to explain it to someone who has no idea or would rather not be reminded that Angels are falling by the dozen. Having coaxed hope from men and children, they've got Catholic guilt and yearn for a flavored vodka to put out the flames. Torn away from contemplation, they smoke and drink and call in sick. They know that this won't mix well with their Pfizer candy and blind faith won't pay the bills, but the leader of the free world keeps his fellatio secret and preaches peace with firepower and lottery tickets.
Penny said, "I know things will get better", then fell out of bed, bruising her face on a piggy bank.
Ezekiel hopped a bus and a train with one ticket to nowhere but the blur away from his head that was beginning to talk about moving to a better city anyway. The needle is beyond E and bounces every time we hit a pothole.
When angels turn to fear and the glue's not as sticky, I searches for an answer to signal me home, I heard an old man say to his eggs today.
The bomb technician was a poodle that said, "I hope I know what I'm doing", before his matter painted the white walls with crimson and fur. That from the chattering bush in Tower Grove Park, as a horse clip-clopped through the sky, hot on the trail of a giant carrot, bobbing on the end of a string tied to a stick which nobody can see.
A hipster prints out bumper stickers that read, "It's an egg, not an omelet".
Sweating, Luther awakes.
Sun creeps through the blinds and he slides his thumb over the "on" button.
The chorus sings, "Why does there have to be a morning after?"
The DJ croaks.
Luther knows he'll feel better if he gets up and swallows a whale's load of cold water and bicycles hands free through the streets and alleys in the afternoon sun, looking at the despair in every set of eyes and maybe a smile from those who think they're getting away with something.
He'll hawk up two or three barrooms and wash the rest of it off when he gets home. He likes the way it laughs as it swirls down the drain and the way that laughter echoes in the
shower.
Everything's gonna be all right...until he can't do this in the middle of the day any longer. Or until he has to explain it to someone who has no idea or would rather not be reminded that Angels are falling by the dozen. Having coaxed hope from men and children, they've got Catholic guilt and yearn for a flavored vodka to put out the flames. Torn away from contemplation, they smoke and drink and call in sick. They know that this won't mix well with their Pfizer candy and blind faith won't pay the bills, but the leader of the free world keeps his fellatio secret and preaches peace with firepower and lottery tickets.
Penny said, "I know things will get better", then fell out of bed, bruising her face on a piggy bank.
Ezekiel hopped a bus and a train with one ticket to nowhere but the blur away from his head that was beginning to talk about moving to a better city anyway. The needle is beyond E and bounces every time we hit a pothole.
When angels turn to fear and the glue's not as sticky, I searches for an answer to signal me home, I heard an old man say to his eggs today.
The bomb technician was a poodle that said, "I hope I know what I'm doing", before his matter painted the white walls with crimson and fur. That from the chattering bush in Tower Grove Park, as a horse clip-clopped through the sky, hot on the trail of a giant carrot, bobbing on the end of a string tied to a stick which nobody can see.
A hipster prints out bumper stickers that read, "It's an egg, not an omelet".
Sweating, Luther awakes.
Sun creeps through the blinds and he slides his thumb over the "on" button.
The chorus sings, "Why does there have to be a morning after?"
The DJ croaks.
Luther knows he'll feel better if he gets up and swallows a whale's load of cold water and bicycles hands free through the streets and alleys in the afternoon sun, looking at the despair in every set of eyes and maybe a smile from those who think they're getting away with something.
He'll hawk up two or three barrooms and wash the rest of it off when he gets home. He likes the way it laughs as it swirls down the drain and the way that laughter echoes in the
shower.
Everything's gonna be all right...until he can't do this in the middle of the day any longer. Or until he has to explain it to someone who has no idea or would rather not be reminded that Angels are falling by the dozen. Having coaxed hope from men and children, they've got Catholic guilt and yearn for a flavored vodka to put out the flames. Torn away from contemplation, they smoke and drink and call in sick. They know that this won't mix well with their Pfizer candy and blind faith won't pay the bills, but the leader of the free world keeps his fellatio secret and preaches peace with firepower and lottery tickets.
Penny said, "I know things will get better", then fell out of bed, bruising her face on a piggy bank.
Ezekiel hopped a bus and a train with one ticket to nowhere but the blur away from his head that was beginning to talk about moving to a better city anyway. The needle is beyond E and bounces every time we hit a pothole.
When angels turn to fear and the glue's not as sticky, I searches for an answer to signal me home, I heard an old man say to his eggs today.
The bomb technician was a poodle that said, "I hope I know what I'm doing", before his matter painted the white walls with crimson and fur. That from the chattering bush in Tower Grove Park, as a horse clip-clopped through the sky, hot on the trail of a giant carrot, bobbing on the end of a string tied to a stick which nobody can see.
A hipster prints out bumper stickers that read, "It's an egg, not an omelet".
Sweating, Luther awakes.
Sun creeps through the blinds and he slides his thumb over the "on" button.
The chorus sings, "Why does there have to be a morning after?"
The DJ croaks.
Luther knows he'll feel better if he gets up and swallows a whale's load of cold water and bicycles hands free through the streets and alleys in the afternoon sun, looking at the despair in every set of eyes and maybe a smile from those who think they're getting away with something.
He'll hawk up two or three barrooms and wash the rest of it off when he gets home. He likes the way it laughs as it swirls down the drain and the way that laughter echoes in the
shower.
Everything's gonna be all right...until he can't do this in the middle of the day any longer. Or until he has to explain it to someone who has no idea or would rather not be reminded that Angels are falling by the dozen. Having coaxed hope from men and children, they've got Catholic guilt and yearn for a flavored vodka to put out the flames. Torn away from contemplation, they smoke and drink and call in sick. They know that this won't mix well with their Pfizer candy and blind faith won't pay the bills, but the leader of the free world keeps his fellatio secret and preaches peace with firepower and lottery tickets.
Penny said, "I know things will get better", then fell out of bed, bruising her face on a piggy bank.
Ezekiel hopped a bus and a train with one ticket to nowhere but the blur away from his head that was beginning to talk about moving to a better city anyway. The needle is beyond E and bounces every time we hit a pothole.
When angels turn to fear and the glue's not as sticky, I searches for an answer to signal me home, I heard an old man say to his eggs today.
The bomb technician was a poodle that said, "I hope I know what I'm doing", before his matter painted the white walls with crimson and fur. That from the chattering bush in Tower Grove Park, as a horse clip-clopped through the sky, hot on the trail of a giant carrot, bobbing on the end of a string tied to a stick which nobody can see.
A hipster prints out bumper stickers that read, "It's an egg, not an omelet".
Sweating, Luther awakes.
Sun creeps through the blinds and he slides his thumb over the "on" button.
The chorus sings, "Why does there have to be a morning after?"
The DJ croaks.
Luther knows he'll feel better if he gets up and swallows a whale's load of cold water and bicycles hands free through the streets and alleys in the afternoon sun, looking at the despair in every set of eyes and maybe a smile from those who think they're getting away with something.
He'll hawk up two or three barrooms and wash the rest of it off when he gets home. He likes the way it laughs as it swirls down the drain and the way that laughter echoes in the
shower.
Everything's gonna be all right...until he can't do this in the middle of the day any longer. Or until he has to explain it to someone who has no idea or would rather not be reminded to rinse, lather and repeat or let go, let gods.
Brett Lars Underwood, 2008
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