ARE U FLASHING GANG SIGNS AT ME OR ARE U JUST SPASTIC?

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

Dem goddamn blueberries when dey fall
when dey fall...

Dad deserves the best--get him some new
jockey shorts, but beware--he'll be pissed
if they're a size too small,
so sneak into his room when he's sleeping
with a tape measure.

Dem blueberries when dey tumble
off da 'frigerator shelf...

I confess what I've had bottled up inside me
for all this time is that...
goddamned Santa Claus,
he never brought me NUTHIN' I really liked.

(Would you believe I had a mild form of
Tourette's--"Saint Vitus Dance" they used to call it--
which I mostly kept under control,
or do you think I might just say that as an attempt
to explain, legitimize, or justify my poetry? )

Goddamned Santa Claus.

And dem blueberries when dey hit da floor
dey don't spill all over da place like before--
maybe my luck is changin'

At any rate, we musn't rush.
We lose GRACE when we rush--
like all the ungainly people
running to catch the bus.

But dad deserves the best, you know.
Every dad has his day
and his is comin' up.

The only lasting things he taught me were the phrases:
You talk like a woman with a paper butthole
and
Ya don't know shit from apple butter
and he was a linguistics professor too...

Goddamn blueberries.
(They've fallen and they can't get up.)

Santa tumbling head-first down da chimney.

We all
headed for a fall

So until that ungainly
ungodly day
git your back up off da wall
and DANCE!!!

(Do tics fit the description?)