Can We Have Our Bomb Back?

Shiite amal militia, dood.
We load the amps
drum cases
n gig bags
into the rolling
money pit
so they can
soak up the smell
of stale beer and
dim bulb b.o.
in Georgetown.
Thank you, mister soundman.
I'm fresh faced illuminated now.
What would I do without you?
Who will be there to play
his band's demo
to a load-in empty room
at gas giant / comet collision volume
through the shit encrusted P.A.?
Who's gonna show me
how played out
and wimpy me n mine are
by not giving me any fucking
monitor mix?
I saw you.
I saw you unplug the amp.
The amp you insisted I use an extension cord for
that you ran back to the outlet
by your piss soaked,
bedwetter rawk music
soundboard.
You certainly showed me.
Mastrubation,
Popcicle eating,
reading,
walking,
thinking,
fucking,
laying in and listening to baseball
while smelling
rain soaked grass
through the open window,
playing guitar
n singing
on the porch
without silly cunts
playing games.
Those are just a few
of the things you showed me
I could have chosen to do
instead of waste
your precious time
and soil your enlightened ears.
Sorry we hurt your bar, mister.