At first I thought the cloud resembled a shrimp. Or a baby gator
But than I remember where I am
Everywhere gas guzzling navigators

Long Island sounds of New York’s muffler
Where grinders become hero’s
And the bagels become tougher
Gas prices gain more zeroes
Just pay what you’ve got ’nuff for

A bottom jaw, a broke off piece
Susceptible to floods and bad drivers
Gold chains worn even at the beach
Yankees too sweet, cologned MacGyvers

A cougar smiles at me in a 7-11 stare
Raspy smokers voice
It must be my Buble hair
The only FM channel choice

I stand and gaze into the sun
I feel angry and undone
The only way back I’ve already swum
Traffic jams through queens and city slums

If I stay too long I’ll turn spray tan orange
Open an auto parts thrift store
Show off my hairy chest
Astro turf welcome sign on my front door

My sink turned into a seashell pot
As I sat down on the floor
Of my unpaid dry docked dirty yacht
A gambler washed up on forked shores

My last chip is placed on the table
I guess It should’ve never come to be
I had it good when I was able
One more roll one more iced tea

In the end I stumble drunk out onto the grass
Look away up to the clouds again
Uptown girls say I’m just a trend won’t last
Stuck here another; it’s a lawn guy land