Whatever it’s about it’s not about
this, this
sitting around shooting
the bull with your best buddy, your fat
ass parked on my time.
Listen, hoss/dawg/hombre/homie,
it don’t matter to me if you’re drinking
Bud on the roof with your shirt
gone, smiling at the Gorgons and their mossy
cheeks, or praying
to the pigeons, you know,
confessing your misery, or bowing
from the hips to the river.
I’m cool, I’m down-
town with that,
and I’m no kind of stickler for logic neither,
which ha
ha
you know. I don’t believe
in your abundance of reason,
your 1 love, 1 world, 1 life, 4 wives,
your unity of all
faiths—
I mean, what’s that mean?
Here’s what I know,
I know from a) bringing it on
and b) getting it done
and c) knowing who my friends are.
You know who your friend is?
Yeah, no!
You see night
security tell him to stop with the cook
fires in the backyard, I can’t use
the extra business. We got to keep it
real down
here, with our boys away
plugging the dam.