88 lines
2.0 KiB
Plaintext
88 lines
2.0 KiB
Plaintext
Looking at the cat's balls
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Charles Bukowski
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sitting here by the window
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sweating beer sweat
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mauled by the summer
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I am looking at the cat's balls.
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it's not my choice
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he sleeps in an old rocker
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on the porch
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and there he looks at me--
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from behind--
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hung to his cat's balls.
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there's his tail, damned thing,
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hanging out of the
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way--
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I view his furry storage tanks--
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what can a man think about
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while looking at a cat's nuts?
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certainly not the sunken navies of
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great sea battles.
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certainly not a program to aid the
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poor.
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certainly not a flower market or a dozen
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eggs.
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certainly not a broken light switch.
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ball iz balls, that's all--
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and most certainly a cat's balls,
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my own are rather mushy-looking, and,
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I'm told by my contemporaries,
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quite large:
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"you've got a lot of balls, Bukowski!"
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but the cat's balls:
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I can't figure whether he's hung to them
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or whether there hung to him--
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you see, there is this almost nightly battle for
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the female--
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and it doesn't come easy for any on us.
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you see there--
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a piece is missing from his left ear.
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one time I though one of his eyes had been
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clawed out
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but when the dried mass of
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blood peeled away
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a week later
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there was this pure
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goldgreen eye
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looking at me.
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his entire body is sore from bites
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and the other day,
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attempting to pet his head
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he yowled and almost bit me--
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that fur skin around his skull, bloodless,
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had been split to reveal the bone.
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it doesn't come easy for any of us.
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those cat's balls, poor fellow.
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he sleeps
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now dreaming--
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what?--
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a fat mockingbird in his mouth?--
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or surrounded by cat bitches in heat?--
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he dreams his daydreams
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and will find out
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tonight.
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good luck, old fellow,
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it doesn't come easy,
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hung to our balls we are, that's it,
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we're hung to our balls,
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and I could use a little myself--
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meanwhile--
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watch the eyes and lead with the left
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and run like hell
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when it just isn't any use
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any more.
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Another upload by The WiZ.
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