My god your deodorant is fascinating. I am perplexed by its depth.

Its scent makes the most perfect sense (olf.). Its sublime wit puts a bulge in my pants.

All women are becoming green.

All men are becoming brown.

This is what I get, from the lipstick and the crowds.

The robe of the Romans,

Its wit at its whim,

Bury me in lipstick and jewelry,

Aftershave and good times and beer,

Consumer contemplation and fear,

Sunglasses and hair paint and avant garde,

Oh the rapture that suffuses from fashion,

Fertilizing the billboards growing in my back yard,

They grow hungry for more disregard,

Of our wit, our poem, our whim, and what I’ve forgotten.

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