Dear Gwendolyn:
All I can think about is your stoned tongue.
The only thing that keeps me away
Is your fathers crocked way
To flood my name
with hallow spit and sparrows blood.
How’s he doin’ anyway?
Last time I check he was busy
writing on infinity, serenity,
and his mothers inability
To forgive his self righteous divinity?
He never was good with words.
You still ridin’ that buggie
that took you the wrong way west?
You know, I love ya gal,
but I swear to lord thundering Jesus, if you do that again,
I’ll slit your throat and collect
the sorrow you bleed.
I know some people
who’ll pay a pretty penny for that.
What the hell were you thinkin’ anyhow?
Perhaps it was the whiskey talkin’
and the blinded love walkin’
before Regret’s concrete fist came a kockin’.
I was never good at rhyming.
I told you; I told ya,
you gotta get outta that wicker pig pen,
It’s walls are too thin
to even screen those dirty deeds performed within;
not enough even to hold a flask of bourbon.
That reminds me,
Do you think your dad would appreciate that?
Before I left, I hid that flask
beneath Mr. Jockey’s bed;
I know he won’t appreciate it though.
Is it possible to be too drunk to be a drunk?
He’ll probably just end up
beatin’ his mail lady with it.
She never gets his address right
or his toupee correctly combed.
GOD DAMN SWINE’S I tell ya!
Anyways, I gotta wrap this up,
finish my drink from this out of order cup
Get outta this diner full of solid smuck;
up against the walls.
I think it may possibly be laced with cyanide?
I guess we’ll see won’t we?
Hey did I tell ya I’m in Readymoney Cove Cornwall UK?
Because that’s kinda important.
Remember your brother still has my 32-29,
which is probably a good thing
because I would be shootin’ you
something,
other then this letter.
Yours truly,
100% HELLbilly and head bound, St. Andy Conda(Formly Kit Kit Weezin’ Foley III)
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