The counterculture is sulking
We cannot be held responsible
Sociopathological liers invented the wheel
In which they run
In scholarly circles

To greater noodle psychology
With Japanese on his t-shirt
Salvation army beetle boots peeling and starting to feel
As if they shrink

On her third glass of wine
She said you're not mine
Not to speak
To seek my point

I sell my voice

Some houses
Lots of trees
On vast stretches of land

No sunflowers or state luminaries
It's how to murder a man

But I feel better today
It's the end almost
I am guessing