Ninety-four percent of my relentless sentience
is induced, produced and juiced by two slick
resident artistes, The Good Time Girls.
They match my arrant thoughts up in blind dates:
turn on a rumba loud until the crowd of them
whirls late into my fateful fantasies – intoning
bunga-bunga-bunga as they stumble towards
the apricot horizon. Sunrise always baits
them on a beach – it’s got a lot to teach them,
and that six percent of sentience which relents.
The Good Time Girls await their dazed arrival:
serve them rum drinks and hot pretzels –
(und the Germans, schwein-mit-spaetzle).
By dawn they’ve wrestled out a truce about what
in the deuce I ought to pay attention to that day.
An awful lot’s required. No wonder I am tired.
.
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