Ramblings of the Yellow-Lipped Mad Man

The mad man of no man's land
Sleeps in a shack
Of broken black stained glass
Smoking old bullets and kissing cigars
With a yellow-lipped smile,
Reeking of piss and ink

Brainwashed by gunpowder,
He twitches at the squawks of vultures
Snapping his fingers to the Devil's knocks on his pebble door.
Sometimes, he's a king
Sitting regally upon his throne
Of rusted fingernails and shattered teeth,
A crown of thorns ripping into his brow,
And sipping on the finest festered bone marrow--
It's getting harder to find in this drought.

But then he melts into a blithering Goliath,
Rolling on a rug of dusty Persian hair
With a mistress made of butcher's twine.
And the blood is velvet and the houseflies sing

His green eye points up, and his blue eye heads west
And as he lays in the dry and heavy heat,
As the bombs and vultures shriek overhead,
While the Devil snaps the blues on his dirt porch,
He pisses himself
So he can think to himself how lovely the rain feels
in the drought of the century