Honey, darling, sugar, baby, anything but Lacey, though
my name's right here where any Tomfool Dick
or Harry could read it if he cared to, 'stead of leering
greasily like a coyote, licking buffalo sauce off his fingers
like there’s a napkin shortage in Kentucky.
Winking, squeezing, grabbing, sticking out their hands
on the sly like its an accident when I walk by: some day
I’ll sling a handful of nickels at ‘em and scream,
“Keep your filthy grubs offa me or I’ll run you over, Charlie,
Mack, Ed, Billy honey, darling, sugar, baby”.
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Polonius: What do you read, my lord? Hamlet: Words, words, words
