Graphene Mansion Poem
Past the curve, sidewalks are illegal,
keeps shady people stuck in their cars.
Lock your doors when you leave your zip code,
where the kindergarten windows are covered in bars.
Just get a pilot license and some classic rock.
Then you’ll never know when you’re dead.
God’s convertible has a Burzum sticker,
and his gasoline is 90% lead.
Tried to become the lord of Frisbee golf,
tried to learn all about the planets;
now I pick fights to keep chiseled like Brad Pitt,
lobbing off body parts in my graphene mansion,
but there’s no money left to go around,
nothing to claw for or lie about,
all torched in an Arizona wildfire.