A priceless pushcart wobbles to the front of the dream and a smooth, smooth sailor trains his hair to talk. Talk, Skeezix, talk – you'll need it soon. That smooth, smooth sailor walks a fine line, a cautious line, a line that traces a path behind the priceless pushcart, wobbling to the beat of his heart. The pushcart wobbles. The sailor is smooth, smooth. And the sailor walks a fine, fine line – a cautious line, some would say (I said it) behind that priceless pushcart.
“Snickering idiots,” says the sailor (the smooth, smooth sailor) as he walks that fine and cautious line. The idiots don't want what the sailor is selling, and they only want to see the pushcart fall to pieces (we always want to see the pushcart fall to pieces, you know) (there was that time that the golden pushcart with the vapor-charged, high ding-dang, pooch-ed octane rip-snort engine came all to pieces in the back stretch of a mid-life crisis and the people cheered, they cheered, they cheered. They put down their soft-core pornography and their microwaved lava cakes and their television remote-controls and they cheered, they cheered, they cheered. The sailor who happened to be behind that particular golden pushcart with the vapor-charged, high ding-dang, pooch-ed octane rip-snort engine was dismembered and covered in unspeakable things. And the people cheered, they cheered, they cheered).
The snickering idiots mocked the one true and living God. They stuffed their faces with ground beef and melted cheese and the ubiquitous sesame-seed bun. They kept hollering that they knew better, because they were bloody well smarter than all the generations that had gone before. Because of their great, advanced intelligence, they knew that they knew better, and they could laugh at the neanderthals who lit their candles and shook their beads and knelt on the hard, hard ground and tried to love one another. The snickering idiots were smart. They just continued to shove the ground beef full of antibiotics and pasteurized cow-shit into their greedy little holes and they pushed away the books that their grandparents had left to them, and they rushed around and screamed that they had no free time and had to rush to get little Justin and little Kayla to the soccer practice and the swimming practice and the band practice and the sensitivity practice and the yoga practice and the pilates practice and the fornication practice and they screamed they had no free time and they sat for hours in front of a box with a talking head telling them what to believe, and they waited to see the pushcart fall to pieces, so that they could cheer, cheer, cheer, the way they had the time that the golden pushcart with the vapor-charged, high ding-dang, pooch-ed octane rip-snort engine came all to pieces. Bastard snickering idiots mocking the true and living God. I'd like to wipe some of that dung – that stinking, stinking dung from your sacrifices onto the faces of your talking head high-priests in the snickering idiot box with the antibiotic ground beef-engine roaring to life in the back stretch, screaming to speak over the screams and the shouts as you copulate with the idiot box in your great, advanced modern intelligence as you kill yourself with a text-messaged social media stake through your own throbbing, wobbling, antibiotic advertised-shitty beef-grease gobbling heart.
The sailor lives. And the sailor and me, we're sick of it.