Ergonomics for Prophets
Forgive my sophomoric assaults,
my drunken aim.
Overlook my broken podium.
Do not steal me Lord
from this orthodontic gauntlet,
only assure me you know its end.
The answers are printed upside down
in the back of the text book, I say
but they’re preoccupied, typing profanities
into their calculators.
I tell them judgment is coming,
that it swore it would be here
in the next hour or so,
that the last 10% of the bottle
Ever feel like the designated driver
in a car full of drunks, I ask,
but no one communicates
through Morse code anymore.
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