Bad Reception
I found this to be the basis of every dramatic party. Checkered stripes, and screaming boys, acting cool near the telephones and party up cupboards.
They weren’t invited, and the dirt from the road set the cops in motion near 3 a.m. when the bullets flew heavy like hamburgers and smooth like hair gel. Jail is nothin’ but a picnic in a hair salon.
Merlot like period blood drips and stains satin dresses in convenient store checkout lines to the upstairs’ bathroom; however, the place was infested with intellectuals (a hazard everywhere nowadays). Amazing to think how bad wives can get, how wonderful mysterious men can be, how rude quiet boys are, how quickly they fall asleep after a few drinks, how much sweeter they smell when it’s down to two.
Hey, I have bad reception when you sing on Saturday nights, but maybe a few more notes wouldn’t hurt.
