Papa was a Rolling up to Coldstone...

Patti Page

So Lost… and look what I found

A bloodhound

And out for blood he was

I let him drink the flood

Hot and fresh out my neck

His bible reads who he beget

Memorized it now I can’t forget

And neither can he...

Is that what you want my memory

My Misery

Chained and bound to infamy?

To a symphony?

Buzz Light Year to infinity?

Woe is me

…‘Twas My loss

That dog in the window

How much it cost

Papa was a Rolling up to Coldstone...

So Papa was a rolling up to Cold Stone

Wit me on a motorcycle 

or in a corvette wit a car phone

Dreamin bout toppin’s n sh*t

Please let em have the Health Bar I get

Just finished hearin' dat Keith Bar…

2 scoops… Let’s Make it Last

I changed the glass

Made it clink

Harmony 

Made me think 

They charming me, 

Just like my Daddy— Nothin’ stick 

Make my cream-song, 

make my  theme-song 

extra Thicke

Growing Pains— Sweet-then-sick

But wit Daddy’s Cold stone nuttin’ stick-- Tho—‘Cept cookie dough

Then you get the scrape

The molding into shape

My Poppa was a cold stone

Ice on brimstone 

…his shoe clack on marble

Unattached

I feel like I'm holding my breath,

waiting for what's next... stifled at best.

I feel like I'm holding my chest,

cupping my breast... yelling, "Elizabeth!"

It feels like nothing...

Like everything...

Like a ball of earthworms.

Like separation but entanglement.

Like strangulation with an oxygen mask.

Am I dying or trying?

Am I late or early...

and please don't tell me about another party.

And where are all the good drugs?! 

How many days has it been-since-I-had-a-good-hug?

The reviews on coke are terrible...

20 minutes then a chase, sounds unbearable.

"Oh f*ck, is this what-it's like to get old?"

I know... I'v-been-told-and-I've-been-scold

But, I'm at the pyramids and can't get over how hot it is

...Yet, I still ai...

You Cannot Have It

“You cannot have it,” my mother said as thing displayed itself in glory and in arrogance.

The thing that was a solution to want.

The thing, a toy, a trifle an adolescent idol,

Was all I needed to be happy.

Look away said my eyes, 

As they burned with desire and dried

From staring

And glaring 

And hoping.

“You cannot have it,” said the voice of my mother that is there when she is not.

The recording,

Of the warnings,

Of life, loss and strife.

That in youth sounded like knives—

And cut my spirit.

But… now cuts the loneliness when I hear it.

Back then I looked upon it like Lot’s wife,

Salted and Immobile 

For a memory of a dream

That never was.

But, I played it back— just because…