I know serving scotch to Socrates is like
baking a bruschetta for Bigfoot, but dreams
like gargoyles looming,
above great stones.
Stack stoners like bongos packed in music shops.
Let he who is without smiles
trip over styrofoam strips
with loose lips.
Thank the doorman
for manning up
and getting down on the disco dance.
Quit the hobbit and sip a growler
at a 90• angle.
Straight up,
sup!
So trouble,
no trouble will it,
it will lay down and die.
