get it right


extortion and bureaucracy are not as Lemmon and Matthau
as once perceived. The sycophants chirp twang zap in bellbottomed
pants and actual retail prices but don’t sweat the technique.

Power Man and Iron Fist hold the claims in this Rio Bravo,
this ambuscade, this make-believe. The fireflies augur psychosis;
advance all failed devices, desperate and weak, gimme a beat.

Buckaroo Banzai is bleeding, his deputy’s badge tarnished
like razors distributed by Wes Craven on dull days of horror,
rats and snails and crisis, bad mojo bubblin’, simmer, then eat.

Modus operandi for mourning will be silent cerebral cave-in,
red velvet sin, Angry Irishmen, molten raindrops upon old man’s
hands, nailed for his vices, tappin’ his feet but parched from the heat.

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