Remember our mechanic     death by heretic
  sex smell at the traintrack and it never paid?

The fitting room kidded    a black booth     a hoarse hip
  red shoes?

A man named Thane followed     as we power-walked
  never allowed    to be as loud as we trained
     and then no sun left
     the baby dressed as Jason
     tared at the rain.

Getting our name out        is never wasteful
  I’m a bad rider       and your black eyes keep moving
    the prank call’s a clock
    and religion’s disputed
    as our pumpkin rots.

    Wherein the bullshit
     becomes the reality
    a man in a cowsuit
     runs up the highway.
    You’re electrocuted
     sucking his teat.