cash wasn’t honey on the tracks

but the subway smelled like my front pocket

stale raspberry cola and dusty and blackened fingertips

french fries in a greasy paper cone

with creamy mayonnaise, a hint of lemony-mustard

lap it up as if the whole show was only ten bucks

folded amongst bodies on the red velvet laugh-a-million

back aching with each fullbelly humor howl

get it into your head that it was difficult to breathe

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