When I reach for a cigarette,
when I lock the door,
I've got an itch on my nose.
When I turn up the heater,
or blanket my toes,
I've got an itch on my nose.
I've got an itch on my nose
from the stink,
the stain,
the remarkable cesspool I gift myself.
Everyday,
Christmas.
Most are more festive with their gifts.
Like a self-defeating Woody Guthrie,
I'll swallow the trainwreck
before my own pride.
But when I stare down the wood trestle,
awake,
crying for a blessing,
counting from Pythagoras to Liebniz,
Would you claim me?