i'll fight any intellectual at this party
especially if you ask for me to define 'intellect'

there's a tolstoy viscosity to this bacardi
so i know, tomorrow, my new life will begin with regret

i'm not wearing underwear, due to the quarter machine being broken.
the way everyone's eyes sink down before me, you'd think i wasn't wearing pants either

all the words i had in me i have early on spoken
of course, without conversation, i'm left posing: a broken dam, ripe for a beaver