we talked of
cotton american flag
thongs,
classy patriotism
wrapped in bacon
and sold to the
big-boobed bitch
in the back row
ready for some red-neck fun.
but when i mentioned a name
that brought her shame,
i threw silence at the
mexican gang that sounded of
mariachi music and rough engines,
and brought up a secret
that didn't actually exist.
when asked by
puzzle-piece eyes
that twinkled with
chocolate chips and a cherry,
i whispered 'player'
and ate their has
with a spork.
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