I maintain an air of serenity which is spurious I manage this by limping my limp artful creation not an abject limp (Quasimodo) but a proud limp (Byron) I move slowly solemnly through the world miming a stiff leg this enables me to endure the gaze of strangers the hatred of pediatricians
“If I haven’t heard a word in ten years, assume you’re dead
Or guest of the Feds
Or cultivated a better class of friends
Not mad, tip the hat, fingers don’t touch the brim
Lid don’t touch my naps
Andy Capp, go ’head, pencil him in
Last one standin’, what he scream in the wind
At the end, at-at the end”
billy woods | “checkpoints”