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enough articulation, it gives me gas,
and to eloquence I say, fill my bubbly
	        --Honey, let it pass,

and if you Fatcats could only see
that Le Intellectuels is a sort of fiction
	a kind of blind manís plea

to hold lemmings over with silly diction,
talking Ďbout VanDerFreud, Kasparararararov
and Billyís theories on slang friction,

while that benign, incandescent love,  
      --Honey, let me, Iíll speak my mind
    (what, you want a felonious shove!),

that as hot plasma, you say, shines,
waits diligently at your lavish homes
hoping youíll somehow grow a spine,

but, I, me, Iíll tell you that my genome,
     --Honey, God slam, Good, God damn it!
will know to stay away from this locoís zone,

away from this on which I spit, spit,
knowing to be humble and rightly meek
        --Honey, let me finish my bit, please,

Iíll see you all, I guess, next week?


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