"Post Office Babe"

he is a beautiful lady, a few years older than yours truly, whose hands rustle gently over the letters and pre-sorted 3rd class mail like "the kiss of the spider woman" spinning a web, or sowing a quilt. She holds out a box before her squarely, and drops it, legs akimbo in her uniform like a coy she-vixen with a langouring air and delicate flutter of her eyelids that speaks of South St. Louis beer parties and "V.P. Fair" blues bands by the riverfront down at "The Arch". The fellow ladies "laugh knowingly" at this young gentleman, and his glibness of poetic words "that butters 'em up" like Bill Clinton "sharing a biscuit" and winking.

Poor, dumb me. . . . . I'm just "a cat's-paw" right here.

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"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

(Rheeee of Crickets)

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("I heard that, Missy!")

© 2010 by Insufferable Industries

Drop "The Bard" a line at
michaeladams_s@yahoo.com

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