the bitch slap baby bottle blues

At the moment, I can recall every Monday I've spent in New Orleans. I remember moving here on a Sunday night. I remember my first morning waking up in the Monteleone Hotel. That was Monday #1.

'nother Monday waits in crowded wings

for 'nother Sunday to say she quits

while brother sister rock and sing:

twosomes that shimmy in sexless fits.

DEAD STOCK

rhythm blues

tax dues

rumor news

crossword clues

popular mechanics

email

my bicycle

swiffer pads

smack cracker urine

floods a souvenir crotch cup

big heart sausage slices

give my pie more power

I give you all my gas lights

I take off all your dance tights

I make up all our last nights

I memorize our slap fights

I'm silly with the south,

grip my face with your mouth.

I'm a stick-my-visa

-in-your-wasteband kind a tipper.

Crack your back against a levee,

get willy-nilly with my zipper.

I done got wise baby to the way these women doin'.

The city smells like a pack of pals purging. Or barf.

I done got wise baby to the way these women doin'.

The city sounds like a tarmac of tourists tweeting. Or flarf.

Ain't no reason to tell a tale that ain't true,

If you want a story baby I google it for you.

Cut up a Second Line with a 2 Live Krewe,

I got the bitch slap baby bottle blues.