I guess when you’re sitting blind on the brink of a world’s war three O Say Can You See is kindeva downer, so bald boulderhead the wrestler comes on like a fight emcee of old to with wail intone a banshee’s
baritone home town intro, while outside young platinum blonde brit punk boys are stunned to see sacred Hollywood overrun
by makeshift tents of tawdry homeless bums, their celeb status amid tinsel crumbs
of tongue melt meth in slum overcome by cigarette. And so the mighty meat collisions thus are begun with rasp of cheer and funlike thud and rapping blare for woofing tweets and tweeter woofers near deaf tinnitic neath the smogfilled rainless skies of endless sun. While faraway grayday shipdockers load crates of guns for dueling slavic bands in unknown lands of dumb miseries undone, the big orange and yellow twin blotches on globe just below top splotch of white, north pole.
So a soup gone cold’s still called super bowl,
much as rodeo cowpokes still exist
to placate a wish for lost canyons full
of wild horse in
real roaming to, and fro.

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