I would take a walk down Gasoline Alley
But--afraid that the fumes might go to my head--
I'll sit where I'm at here in Sycophant City
And dream of escaping whilst hatching my plans
I can't even walk with my legs thus; all shaking.
So I'll try to crawl, going hand-over-hand.
If these monochrome panels would ever release me,
I'd fill my speech bubbles with triumphant laughs.
But--drunken and sleepy--my trochaic footsteps
move quicker than my brain is likely to catch.
I parse out my thoughts and amble through diction.
And, then, with I struggle do start to syntax.
You hope it stays dry here in Sycophant City.
I hope it starts raining and droughts are all done.
Because that's the time down in Gasoline Alley
When colors from monochrome bleed and do run...
