On this street the lives are final drafts,
The protagonists are flags
And dogs walking owners bearing little bags.
The butter cuts beautifully for February.
My living situation is temporary,
I soak it up, a diligent sponge asleep in the sun.
You know what they say,
Do what you love and never live a day
Of your life, until the last leg
In paradise. There’s plenty of fish in the barrel,
I’m a cherub in Estero,
Man-meat for the ladies’ league eyes,
A hunk the husbands despise.
Oh relax, old man, take a look at my book,
I’m a lot like you. I never leave home without my hair,
I applaud your puffed-up pride, coming to life
Like Hollywood Hogan, care of Viagra,
In star-spangled explosions.
Mothers cover their children’s ears
As far away as Playa Nagra.
Snug in the suburbs of the spirit,
Where the deer and the antelope pray,
Birthplace of the gold chain
Nestled in the chest hair of open collars,
Freedom is measured in football fields,
God is a secret shopper,
The appeal of immaculate grass grows old,
Heaven is a glorious ass with no hole.
