All photographs are by Russell Bittner

M a r c h

Last winter’s mad-dog clutches
made a mess of this spring spree,
then snatched away my crutches
and dried up my do-re-mi.

Now, Lordie, if that’s all ya got
of life on one short shelf,
I think I’ll find some warmer spot
on which to sun myself.

In truth, my kind don’t give a damn
about the world’s widgets,
cause living here, out on the lam,
we can’t connect the digits.

So if this godforsaken pit
ain’t nothing but a ruse,
allow me first to bitch a bit
before I self-abuse.

It’s true that what I wanted
wasn’t quite the thing I got,
since here I hit the skids galore
as tongue-tied polyglot.

A shame, too, that I simply can’t
produce some better skit,
as that might put my Swedish rant
to bed before we meet

to babble with the best of ‘em
of mierda, Scheiß’, гавно—
and then, conclude our stratagem
with a brummagem ‘no show.’

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