Neon green ‘neath clouded moon.
The spring draws nigh.
February wanes like our celestial witness.
Sick of the Sun’s bullshit.
Comes home late smelling like that slutty Starlink Satellite.
Midnight margaritas with the other stars, vomiting lyrics to “Try That In A Small Town” as the furthest away twinkles for attention, confesses what Father Murphy did to him in the third grade, and fades to black.
Wtf just happened on the universal plane?
Father Murphy must be hung like a Ferengi, yo.
Glory worm-hole.
Deep-Throat Nine.
Tenth pin’s on me, boys.
Tenth pin’s on me.
The Gonzo Wolf 
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