Absurdly named, a pesto-pan-tomato-roll
roars past my face
and I am sore, sore afraid: bad news
bears are uh-comin.
Scheduled to work 12 days
in a row, I moan, alone:
I got no angle on the truth
but the truth's got an angle on me.
You tired, you sick, you hungry?
Too bad, you. We in charge
all priapic for money;
we in charge got you where we want you.
We the redneck in the woods
lowering his trousers for a chafing go
at your shivering