I want to throw up in my face.
my whole life is a sunday afternoon.
women are funny, they're almost like people, sweet little suffragettes
-something to eat, something to cook, something to freeze-
the mail slows and the phone calls drop off completely,
like the moon lose herself once a month...

the indians are coming back in derailed rollercoaster cars,
polka dots and earrings, their mohawks all blown back by the wind,
a foreign flash, brighter than white lightning,
don't sweat it sleeping foot, for the white man is all but extinct.
come and burn the worship dresses of ladies and the lord's wardrobe,
ride on back into the homesteaders' village slinging arrows,
toss your tomahawks, turn and join the ranks of the empowered,
turn and the join the ranks of the empowered and the vicious.
don't make that fish face, bitch, from your fish tank,
let's go and find a tapedeck and make love to buddy holly.
aren't you in the know, the navajos approach the fort as we speak
and you are dog meat, and you my darling are dog meat.