This band ends a song with someone screaming “We’re the greatest band in the world.” I might agree with them.
It’s fake Irish, like I used to think I was.
In which I reveal that I own a poo-scraping knife.
Even flow. Thoughts arrive like plaid-wearing guys.
We can’t all be a snowflake unicorn fractal.
Girlfriend in a quesadilla, I know. This is serious.
I can’t promise that I’ll like it. But I can promise to hate the bass player’s hat.