Trump for president.

A perfect week for digging up the block.

If you care, you repair the infrastructure, or it will despair.

Bear with the noise, we aren't made of air.

Tyrannosaurus wrecks on tires, gorging horribly, fucks the street in bursts and jerks,

the operator riding it bucks and charges forward and resumes his hippopotamus mouthfuls.

The scene's a slaughterhouse with dead meat screaming.

Maybe the concrete is fully conscious.

Major surgery without anesthesia.

You'll need earplugs and a hard hat while this berserk year runs amok.

We actually need a talk.

What now?

Now what?

We are poor little lambs who have lost our way.

We are little black sheep who have gone astray.

Oh, say, can you see what we're about to be?

What am I, chopped liver? Oh, say, can you see what we're about to be? "'What am I, chopped liver?' "'Oh, say, can you see,

"'we're about to be the Nuremberg rally in an alley.'

"'I text the sky, high sky.

"'Oh, infinite and blue.

"'In a green pasture, up in the blue sky, oh, infinite and blue. In a green pasture, up in the blue sky, a cow chews her heavenly

cud, a garland of orchids around her neck. Cow-eyed hira, goddess, but not goodness,

...