Kern's Holler Poem Bunker
Susie the Floozie

Oh, how it satisfies, oh so amusing!
My stalkers abound, the game gets confusing...
Its guts a-twitchin' from days of too-thin yield
A fat greasy bug goes *SPLATSPLAT* on my windshield

With volleys of spew that throw light on his rage
the fat loathsome ape throws itself at its cage
in hopes of announcing to one and to all


I close my door and the echoes don't linger.
I don't even bother to flip off a finger.
It's flattering, sure, that some jerk tries so hard
When he'd get off so easy by sending a *card.*


I am unsure of it's motivations
Perhaps it is lonely on Winter Vacation
Do the unemployed notice the dawning of such  events.
Up the stairs it's mother is dying
Yet down in the basement its desperately trying
To prove that it has some ground from which to defend
I am at a loss to describe this
It reeks with an odor of grease shit and piss
It fouls up the waters and leaves trails on the floor
It's ass handed to it, it was told it's place
but still the sweat rolls down its bloated oily face
It's twitch on the floor yelping like the dog it killed for sport


Not really a reply, just my way of sneaking in a new pome...

If this were tomorrow, and I had written today,
I'd have precious prescient thoughts to display
But yesterday, I was doing nothing that matters
So now all I can say sounds like silly SubChatter

Now, Susie, you see, has a show she can do
Whereby taking old sounds, makes each week something new
And the people who listen, get off like a Jake
And pinkness, like tenpins, gets bowled down in her wake

I've only just heard her show once, on CD
But it's something she gave me at X-Day, for free
She might not remember, but I remember her well
I'm too much a SubGentleman, to toke and not tell.

I remember these things, as I walk down the hall
Such a vast re-collection, in a brain that's so small
There's no room for more details of my life in 3-D
The short splatter of matter and vibes that is me.

Though contented I am, and contented will be
Just the two of here, in a house built for three
Soon the PriMate is leaving, to visit her folks
And a session's in planning, to record some new jokes.

It's something that I do, when I'm all alone
I turn off the tv, and I don't have a phone
It's something I can't do, when the PriMate is napping
When the radio's on, and the newsguys are yapping

It's not the same thing, as what Susie does
I play acoustic guitar, then add digital fuzz
This verse could go on, but I think that it shouldn't
I'll shut down the 'net, and go make something wooden.