A Poem by Don'tstoesky
Sometimes, I work with relics.
Not the Egyptian or Assyrian kind,
but old people who distinctly don’t mind
fucking up from time-to-time,
because they’ve resigned
from life, from the daily grind,
and lived so long they redefine mankind,
Sometimes, I like the relics.
They drink vodka martinis as anesthetics;
part of a healthy diet of antiseptics,
antipruritics,
antibiotics,
fun-filled antics.
Antiques, they are, they know, they buy,
and I like that they fuck up time-to-time
in old bow ties, preaching artistic sublime,
planning a heist, the next Great American Crime,
and selling opera tix for nothing but a dime.
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