murdering time with a blunt pickaxe
my roommate plays bebop apocalypse
the beat plays narrow, meandering fast
a joke-on-joke, mecca of sardonic whisps
blown bout by big boisterous lungs
a trumpet, or somethin, reels, wheels, then crash!
back to the gritted mindplace from whence we come
percussion makes a heady sordid backlash.
sounds like heroin city just got spun,
we wallow then, in the molasses groove
now nothing to save, no race to run
somewhere 'tween that, and move motherfucker move!
we find our own breed of redemption song
among bop creeds we echoed and ached for so long!