A paean to the tres hipness of the tres hip.

Sorry, toots, I’m no longer interested
The fun’s gone with the sundown
The after all and the waking
I can’t seem to make sense of it anymore

I want a life of leisure
One adventure stinging another
A whole crop of writhing sunrises
Pleading insanity

As if the clowning were trivial
The combining convivial
Too many adverbs for my taste
Give me action or give me breath

You know, I could be trolled
By anxiety, whacked by whimsy,
But I’d like to choose otherwise
And pretend it’s destiny

Sweet, stinking destiny
Are you with me?