Dinner For 3, But Now We Are 4

 Dinner For 3, But Now We Are 4

 

Like as some waves do make to some shores

by skimming a couple of metric beats

you think will merge, you take to talking street

and all that hand slapping crap when you meet.

Ah, now - here’s our dinner for 3, but we are 4,

swilling about on top of grey cardboard 

brought forth by some dreary young thing

who garlands a wet, pug nose with pewter rings,

one of those cheap bead friendship strings

and hackneyed tattoos that garnish thick skins.

Complaining there’s too much on this plate,

toss off witless pronouns with slippery wrists,

chittering phlegm all over drizzled dish,

you probably heard that ignorance is bliss,

while smearing smashed avocado on charred bread,

and filming yourself. Braincells, long dead, fled,

employing thawed grammar to help to stay cool,

which doesn’t have to scan; that'll take sweat,

more than you'll put into damp degrees you'll get,

way-thrilled with even more toilet paper yet.

Up yours - your buds, your bros, your dudes,

you idle entitled buggers pulling food from drawers,

cold chizburgers, pizzas, nazzos and scores more:

you're serving up dinner for 3, when now we are 4.