Words are flat

Today I'm feeling shallow
my buddy-old-pal-o
and words are flat
as the paper they stick to.

What a thick Jew,
that man who robbed me
of my place in queue for the loo.
I hope the toilet seat

is uncomfortably warm
and full of angry invisible crabs
and his balls turn red from claws
and pinches, miniscule grabs.

I don't have to go anymore.
I think I'll sit on this curb,
watch that puddle, count the cars
that roar past, that don't disturb

it's placid face. A lake for ants,
that's what that is. If I were rich
I'd make waterskis by the tri-pair
and little flaming hoops to jump through.

Bees have no need for waterskis.
They could be the lifeguards,
if they get certified, of course.
Running an ant lake can be hard,

and we don't need a lawsuit.
That's the last thing. Shit.
That Corolla has no tact,
just plopped its tire right in it

and splashed me right in the nose.
And me without a hankie.
And me with a sock around my toes,
and me taking off my Newbies

and me with a sock on my face,
no, why did me do that, strange,
me is disgusting and dirty
and me will probably die from the plague

now. This curb has gotten old
fast, like how I was young once,
slow and to the point. Goodbye
is all I can say and forget, let it die.