Revenge Of The Baby Sax

He's built without fingers with 1 big itch he can't scratch he’s
got 2 dozen nostrils for spite tho, all caterwauling
traffic jams with congested lungs & smoldering noisemakers
squealing Figaro like a pig in revolt

there's nothing but polka dot bow ties anyhow acting like
clouds afloat in a smoke-free office—it's New Year's Eve, baby
pink slip phone message slips snow pinko confetti
betwixt the gray gray raindrops most of them in re:
1 big itch that can't be scratched

but the Baby Sax feels heartache like a pi-
mento skewered at the business end of a dry martini
He's got no heart he wants the angry zen rendition of
      Auld Lang Syne
snort snort—puffing out his honker—that's his job,
he's got 2 dozen nostrils for spite tho, all caterwauling

limos backfiring black plastic bowlers as they career in-
to the Time Machine as tho they tipped off Pier 39 smack in-
to waterlilies, calamari, this morning's coffee scorched to
      a soap opera,
underwear all colors, this sense of worthlessness like a
traffic jam—with congested lungs & smoldering noisemakers

& yesterday's calzones chock full of Caruso recordings exploding
like a pogo-stick with a guilty conscience
like your brain on dope on a rainy night in a phone booth
it's the Baby Sax—his mouth with 1 belligerent tooth
squealing Figaro like a pig in revolt

The party hats have had it, they want their mama: Mama
Skyscraper—her umbrella's the Baby Sax bawling
clock radios jammed with car horns that want to be foghorns
      blaring
monday monday tho it's a ruthless Rossini saturday
built without fingers, with 1 big itch

Jack Hayes © 1990-2009