Talent Show

HOLY SHIT.

I’ve gotta run to get my suit,
Run to get my pick,
Warm the chops,
(But what if you stop??)
(I’m going to be doing both??)
The acoustic’s fine,
(Can I move my fingers in time??)
The rhythym’s there
(But how stupid is my hair??)
Two acts to go
(But what if I’m a no-show?)
AGH I JUST WANT TO SCREAM

But I don’t.
And I won’t.
Just soothing vocal chords through the beer cellar doors.
It’s a job for a tyke.
(BUT SHIT, THERE’S ONLY ONE MIC.)

“Can I get a hell yeah?” I proclaim,
I need a response to know I’m not a shit stain
I get it again, they give me a chant
And I suppose at this point I really can’t faceplant

So I start Banana Day
(The title sounds like I’m gay)
So I call it untitled two
(I’ve got the heart of a shrew)
But I pluck, and I pluck
(I miss a string, FUCK)
I keep going on and forward
(Shit transition that I go toward)
But I nail it! (Sort of)
The energy comes back.
The multi-rhythmic jam keeps me clear of heart attack.
There’s no need to break out the defibirlator,
(Even though I have the grace public masturbator)
I make it through, get a half-hearted chant
(I won’t go without electric, I honestly can’t)

Maybe a poem would have been better,
But I knew today was yellow weather.

I lived.
And to my mistakes, I’ll learn to forgive.

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