don’t call me late for dinner

don’t call me late for dinner

alright, okay, cut the crap…
your rhyme? it’s transparent… like saran (w)rap
and they try to cut you down
but you keep your feet on the ground
refusing to ride
on the pop culture riffs
that are all hit or miss
and you slide
catching her eyes sly cornerwise
quick shift slip peripheral romantic
and you think she’s hit
so ya trip into a trance
obscure sonic audio slow dance
singin’ “i may not be the black crow king
but i can drum better than hamlet (pow pow pow)”
and she smiles, so you think you might have a chance
and make some hipster cocktail reference
as if alcohol is the best defense
against her smile
soldier of fortune style
what’s her name… you know the one
with a gun to your head
but those eyes… and i regress
back to when i used to read
about where the wild things are
they’re never too far, they’re right here in my head
or mickey in the night kitchen
and back to those guns… i mean her eyes…
and it’s not my trigger finger that’s itchin’
like daisy duke at an irish bar…
“you! cut-off!”
but i’ve just started have i gone too far?
i just wanted a beer
but i guess my truck i mean the buck oh fuck it’s just my luck
that stops here
so you break the rhyme
to bring it
to bring it back
to bring it down
to bring it down here
to bring it here now
before you drop some boss hogg segue
into a blues explosion
that leaves you standing in muddy water
crying over spilt ocean
and you say…

“did i tell you that i fell in love with my wife
twice
but she moved about as far as you can move
without swimming
i guess i can just pretend that i’m free.
last i heard she was doing fine
she got a job
she got a dog
i heard someone say
that it looked a lot like me.”

-marcel feldmar