Fuck you and your twenty-six point two,
and fuck the Escalades, two by two, white by white,
I’m waiting for protection.
Thirteen point one, you’re fucking done.
All around, I might be blind,
but there aren’t any cupped hands
managing my day.
The fuckers who wear their labels.
There’s love in the maze,
but they don’t take my dinero.
What I see with twenty-six point two,
they roll me on the microwave turntable,
kicking my poisoned kidneys,
choking and strangling my god
who rides a bicycle
without a helmet,
hugging the curb.
Thirteen point one runs over my god,
splotches on Escalades,
there will never be cupped hands.
Fuck me and my dead spirit.
I ain’t worth one point two.