The dark pitter-patter watering the ground
Next to the paper bag I sit on
Gives me that Hank III slow train blues
Rhythmically eating away conscious lobes of my brain
Reminding me how often I’ve felt this way before
Stuffed down a hole by my own negligence
Lacking attention to details
Uncommitted hippy attitude to all things present
I’ve put myself here
Wet paper bag singing it’s soul to my lonely hooker’s mind
Sometimes we all get an urge to howl at the moon