day two hundred and six.

i realized afterwards
that i could help
but does that make
my character
very helpful?

day two hundred and five.

a silent stuck up
match
of eating
between a mother
and her gorgeous
daughter
each trying to seem
more disinterested
than the next
as if they've seen it all
so they most certainly
don't need to see
you.

day two hundred and four.

sometimes things are so half beautiful
that you don't want to write about them
and ruin them
with a half assed memory.

day two hundred and three.

sitting in the rain
on a bench in front
of a lake
in a part of the city
i don't know much about
chomping on left over
spring rolls
thrown into a
paper doggy bag
and
pouring more vodka into
my disguised pop
and waiting in the silence
that good music can
sometimes bring
i wait for the friends
of which half
or three quarters
i am excited to see.

day two hundred and two.

the confusion
that ensues
through simple
clear text messages
i shall never understand -
it's just too confusing.

day two hundred and one.

he says he's
too old
to start over,
he's married
he needs the money
because he's too old
and married.
he needs to be miserable
because he's old
and married.

day two hundred.

at medieval times,
i'm getting my
5$ worth
for that
peasant's
glass of wine.

day one hundred and ninety nine.

only a bus driver
would see me trip
before i've paid
for my trip.

day one hundred and ninety eight.

you cannot seek help
if you cannot help yourself
first
and you cannot help yourself
first
if you do not wish to.

day one hundred and ninety seven.

the goblin sits outside,
dressed for all occasions,
sticking his stony tongue out
because he doesn't have
to be disappointed
by any of them.

day one hundred and ninety six.

it's nice seeing people
out
on their porches at
4:30 in the morning,
laughing at the clock
and drinking with
the lights on.
the only shame is that
you're on your way to work
and can't make yourself
invited.

day one hundred and ninety five.

i write cryptic messages by night
for my better self
to investigate by day.

day one hundred and ninety four.

i've told myself this
so many times
that even i'm laughing now-
if it's never going to
get done
then stop using yourself
to lie.

day one hundred and ninety three.

i repeat myself without
realizing it -
you don't have to be old
to be an old fuck up.

this planet.

1.5 billion years left
if we can make it
that far.

day one hundred and ninety two.

too much peanut butter
on toast
i want to go back
to before i knew
though i always said
ignorance was worse.
this just puts both
more and less
emphasis
on my life
and what i should do
with it.

day one hundred and ninety one.

there are some things
that we have constructed in our
lives
to be for only children
or idiots.

i happen to be very fortunate
in this respect
as the things i once
enjoyed as a child
i can now enjoy as
an idiot.

day one hundred and ninety.

it seems to be deep
you have to be sad.
perhaps because
pain drags you down
on some other
depthy level
that the rest of us
just wouldn't
understand,
so in turn
you understand
more about everything else.
well,
if you have to be sad
to be deep,
i'm glad
i'm not.

day one hundred and eighty nine.

last minute
garage call;
sorry your game
was rained out
the moment
you started it
in the middle of a storm.
it's not so bad
though, it smells
like gasoline
and i can tell what's
on your cocks mind.

day one hundred and eighty eight.

he kept

moving his legs back

and forth

on the pavement

he was staring intently at.

day one hundred and eighty seven.

a beautiful cottage
filled with
middle aged
or quite past that
people
with a preference for men
and threats of
bitch slapping
makes for a great way
to devour the piles
of food in front
of me.

day one hundred and eighty six.

i made up for what i
could handle
in sushi
for a lack of
cocktail tolerance
and some bad spelling.

day one hundred and eighty five.

my stomach is gurgling,
i tell you.
i'm just so
awfully
regretfully
sorry
to turn down your
forty dollars
(before taxes)
to calm my nerves
before this
poorly understood
test.

day one hundred and eighty four.

trying to explain
the double slit
experiment
is the equivalent
of split-
ting
my brain open.

day one hundred and eighty three.

but the garbage never smells
as good as it tasted.

day one hundred and eighty two.

i feel as hot and greasy
as kentucky fried boobies
and a pizza whore.

day one hundred and eighty one.

sometimes i want to break off
all connections
and be alone.
not because i wish to ignore
everyone i frequently contact,
but because in order
for them to continue
liking me, i feel
that i must stay away.

day one hundred and eighty.

that pizza
was the last battle;
won easily at first bite
with a false lead induced
by an over-sexualized blister.

day one hundred and seventy nine.

i hate asking for things,
favours,
and hanging out.

i like to pretend i'm as
busy and independent as i am
at all times
to prevent myself from
looking boring or lonely.

day one hundred and seventy eight.

why would you capture
her attention
when the only feedback you want
is the fake crackling
between phone lines
and a desperate call
five hours later.

day one hundred and seventy seven.

i'm not great at this
creepy crawly stuff.

like a firefly with no wings,
i'm only half of what
my role requires.

day one hundred and seventy six.

though we're deaf and blind,
and physically lacking,
we're not dumb;
and that's enough
responsibility
to force us to be
the strong ones.

day one hundred and seventy five.

it was more than just a
crayon craving,
it was a plea to
the creator of time
to stop the clocks.

day one hundred and seventy four.

one persons cold vibes
can be enough to stifle
the warm invitations
of others' present.

day one hundred and seventy three.

it's best to be
completely straight forward -
with uninterpretable words,
and even more direct body language.
otherwise,
your figurative hints for
a couple of hours
might turn into
a literal
couple of minutes.

day one hundred and seventy two.

i deal with the world
not revolving around me
every day.

it's both a wonderful
and a frightening thing;
like only obeying half
of the rules of the road
while riding a bike.

day one hundred and seventy one.

i'm going to wait
a week until i
bring out the
ham hock
to knock that
book back
into my hands.

day one hundred and seventy.

i made a bet that i could
complete a 3 year project
in just 6 months.



hm.

day one hundred and sixty nine.

taking away the right to be informed

distorting the truth and being one sided

yelling.

three strikes and i'll
make sure
you're out.

day one hundred and sixty eight.

beer soaked popsicles
and being accepted as
a loon.



--

i was somehow shocked
more
by the
fictional death
than the real one.

day one hundred and sixty seven.

i make the best impressions
when i stay
far away.

day one hundred and sixty six.

there's something about
the combination of it
being both
something i've never had,
being awfully bad for me,
and me not being able
to have it
that entices me closer.

day one hundred and sixty five.

the feeling sinks
to my stomach
as the drink does
too
and it evaporates
and is slept off
just as easily
despite lost words
and slurs.

day one hundred and sixty four.

there's always time

for a next time,

but there soon won't be

if you keep pushing 

it away.

everything gives up

if you do that

to it enough.

day one hundred and sixty three.

you're not trying
to make me feel terrible
you're just making me
realize
all the things that I
don't want to.

day one hundred and sixty two.

sure, i'll
come over.
we can try and open the door
to your new apartment
that you never paid for
and be locked out
together.
you, me,
and the rug you carry around
while i try and decipher
what you're saying
and wonder
how your beard
got to be so
white.

day one hundred and sixty one.

you didn't give yourself

enough time

to look,

you didn't give me

enough time

to help.

enjoy your huff

with no ketchup

on the side.

day one hundred and sixty.

finished my first

cross stitch.

approx. time it took to stitch: 3 hours (?)

approx. time it took to accomplish this: 3 years +

meet spidey.

day one hundred and fifty nine.

it's never going to be
made up for,
so you can either say
fuck it
or go with
your gut
and take ten for
the team
or more.

day one hundred and fifty eight.

finally picked up that
spider again
going
to conquer him
this time.

day one hundred and fifty seven.

mother of god,
or rather
wife of god,
and god mother?
i had a bilingual
lesson
on such things
this afternoon.
so interactively awkward
i couldn't eat my
soy dogs.

day one hundred and fifty six.

i think i'm going to start
guerilla crocheting
or rather, knitting
unless i can
pick up the skill
in between sociological
research methods
and astrology
(not to mention
the bakery burns
and the sacred drink).
or more likely
if i can find the right
benches
i would like to
guerilla cross stitch.
exexexex.

day one hundred and fifty five.

a new obsession to
be found,
though i know where
to find it.

day one hundred and fifty four.

to be more worried
about borrowed
wasted
food
than for
having a party and a piss
inside a place you
haven't been since the
twelfth grade.

day one hundred and fifty three.

haunted by the cake
and the dreams
of a borrow gone
wrong.

day one hundred and fifty two.

hiding is easy,

the only people 

who are bad at

hiding

are those who secretly

want to be found.

day one hundred and fifty one.

a foodland retiree,
surrounded by some
fake friends
and unknown
part timers
who just want a
piece of his
cake
and a cur of his
hours.

day one hundred and fifty.

please buy a membership,
so that when you are further
convinced to
buy more
you can save money while
you're spending
what you otherwise
wouldn't.

day one hundred and forty nine.

they come and go,
but mostly i go.
sometimes they never come,
and sometimes they
never go.
those are the worst type;
when they're
not the
right type.
leave me be for now,
i'm not heartless,
i just haven't got
the heart
right now.

day one hundred and forty eight. (why not)

do you need to be innocent
or naive
or pretend to turn a
blind eye
or be overly
forgiving
to be nice?
every time i am,
i have to be conscious to try
one of the above
after the ribbon of
gratefulness and thanks
has been cut
and the only winner
crossing it is
the advantage
which has been taken
from me.

day one hundred and forty seven.

sleeping for wellness

to be awoken

for sickness;

a trip that

made you feel 

as if

you weren't in canada

anymore

day one hundred and forty six.

throw it out
or hide it
there's already
one
asian woman calling
at 7:00am in the
morning.

day one hundred and forty five.

bright colours to mesmerize
and looks to make
you realize
that
they both make you feel
the same way.

day one hundred and forty four.

shit.
i'm tired.

day one hundred and forty three.

cool relaxed bus
in the shade
music on
free seat
next to you
while staring out
the window
thinking of
drinking
a cold one
(one of anything cold
and alcoholic)
while you stare at the
balding moms
their newborn childrens'
pawns.

day one hundred and forty two.

crap on the floor
that isn't yours
from the dog you trained
through tears and pain
all for this stain
on the rug
that's
not yours.

day one hundred and forty one.

we need some more custard
and bread pudding
cups -
you need to start working
and shut the
fuck up.

day one hundred and forty.

i didn't smell it
until i smelled you,
then the whole day
the smell followed through.

day one hundred and thirty nine.

mixed
and almost fixed
feelings
but
temporarily
patched up
and given away
and parted from
all the while
holding onto
something that
isn't yours when
you plan to steal
it back.

day one hundred and thirty eight.

turning up

and old

and going out

and turning round

and tipping down

but not tipping

them

for the sipping

things

and the gripping piss

and the walk all the way

lost

downtown.

day one hundred and thirty seven.

i'm too lazy
LAAAzyyyyy
ZZZZ
to grab my bboookk.
so much to fucking do.
FUUUUUCK feels good
yelling out of your mouth.

day one hundred and thirty six.

purple pussy.
__________.
is lost forever.

day one hundred and thirty five.

the last peach to be picked
is never actually picked,
and must have the harsh realization
that nobody wanted them
as they hit the ground
with no hands there to catch them.
while they rot away
or are eaten alive,
they have the bruise of their
rejection
to remind them that
no one cares.

day one hundred and thirty four.

on this day i tried a fish shaped waffle.

i felt frivolous

and enjoyed every bite of it.

day one hundred and thirty three.

that pepperoni was there
the day she died
and it will
be there
until she rises
again
everything that
fell out
i won't need while
i'm wetting
my mouth
so back off
lil wayne
and let me be
myself,
this blood
it's real blood
my blood
so give me a bandaid
to fall off my
wounds
and let me go crazy
with all of this
booze.

it.

i want the
smell
of that room,
the itching of
my ass
on the floor
tight leggings
the feeling in my
head
my skin
changing colour
the prickles that
come with it
the sound of
the booming
and laughter
the feeling inside
of being more
and much, much
less
than is expected of us.

the world chooses for you.

'if you love someone,
let them go"
should be
rephrased as
"you can't
control people
so let them go".

day one hundred and thirty two.

it's cinnamon wood
faintly sweet
it's rainbow smoke
faintly real
but bicycle judgments
are serious shit.

day one hundred and thirty one

the bottles
smashed against
one another
and created
new sparks;
later to end
in blood.

day one hundred and thirty.

it's good to take
the edge off,
even the edges
it's not supposed to.

day one hundred and twenty nine.

the pepperoni whore
always goes after the
vegetarians
first.

slides down the slice
and cries drips of
grease
for your endearment.

day one hundred and twenty eight

a confidence like
a piece of glass
and not even the
bullet proof kind
either.

day one hundred and twenty seven.

one further away
but coming near,
another closer to me
but distanced with fear.

day one hundred and twenty six.

more dropping
i can only read words
if they are written clearly
and not whizzed by
even by myself



mistakes occurred,
for i had erred.

day one hundred and twenty five.

birthday surprises

and treatment

make me feel like

i've turned

six

instead of 

_______.

day one hundred and twenty five.

a new place
full of games
and friends
- sort of -
that you sort of like
a nice sort of people
you can't dislike
if you're the type to
lie most.

day one hundred and twenty four.

not a lot happening
the blank spell begins
the youth ends.

day one hundred and twenty three.

this schedule is
making me
shit
my panties
for reasons opposite
to why it did
last year.

day one hundred and twenty two.

lost lipstick
found phone
foot healed
walking home
to where
i can finally
make myself
feel
accomplished again.

just something.

there are more
emotions
than there are
words,

there is more
colour
than there is
sight.

but most of all
there are more
blanket statements
like these
than there are
fools
who spew
them out.

i believe
what i simultaneously
don't.

day one hundred and twenty one.

the need for fingers
to work harder than they
can,
the result
of a protestant ethic
and a celebrity culture -
we're all going down,
someone needs to fill
the positions
that are slowly
dying out
since you'd rather
readjust
your pants
than change into
another pair.

day one hundred and twenty.

a library book returned
but a thought
and a feeling
only secretly.
there is much
to be done
in the realms of
the mental
and the physical
with plan b
hiding in the bushes.

dreams of garbage covered
canvas,
things worth more
before they
were used.

day one hundred and nineteen.

i want to throw up
all the food
i've ever eaten,
turn it into a waterfall
and re consume it
then sleep until
2035.

day one hundred and eighteen.

a cake shake
after a tumble
down the stairs
the april fools
was on both of us
that night.

everybody chug
and bernie the
thoughts away.

day one hundred and seventeen.

plans made,
delayed,
then run away from
in the attempt
to make something else
of the night.
one night jokes
of the unmentionable
only to be mentioned
two days later
in an underlying
pleading tone
but pleading in a way
in which the receiver can only
figure out
with close reading.
all is never clear, even if the words seem so.

day one hundred and sixteen.

the itch to get out
scratched by unplanned
hangouts.

day one hundred and fifteen.

i don't know what to think anymore
- why is he still here?
people act differently
when one of them
is missing
- why is the chomping louder?
i don't know if
i should think
to find what should
be in that thought
or to just let
it go
and hope for it all
to come back to me.

dat one hundred and fourteen.

when midday fantasies
seem almost real
there is no telling
how you will feel.

day one hundred and thirteen.

all are upset;
unrest,
while resting on this.
on the ideals
we still think are
ideal -
they're not.
anyone can change
what they don't like.
if a group is needed,
i guarantee
that you aren't
alone.

day one hundred and twelve.

a new form of torture
is carrying a
twenty pound
bucket of muffin mix
with limp and sun burned arms
across a generous
room
with a gimpy,
limpy
leg.

drained.

sitting in the bath
until the water runs out
until my heat runs out
until the sound runs out
until my thoughts run out
so i jump out
trying to feel clean
on the inside
as well.

day one hundred and eleven.

where do you
search
for the appreciation
you want to give
and what is in a name
a title,
even
that makes it what it
is.

you might be hungry,
while
another under-appreciated
dad joke
flys by
rolling eyes
without a second
thought.

day one hundred and ten.

that dusty old dust
on the car dashboard
and the road
and on the trees
blocking ones view
of the sunset.
that dusty old dust
on the graves
distracting one
from the sunset
and on the
records
you wish you
were near.

day one hundred and nine.

sun shining down
on your arm
coming down
pulling your
sock off
down
onto the ground
where your empty
beer cans
lay.

nothing to worry about
the pizza man came
the beer run is done
(the second one)
and the kids know how
(now)
to fix their
popped tire.

day one hundred and eight.

we have a
vomitorium
for booze
not food.

we throw our problems
on the floor and then
have new ones
to choose.

day one hundred and seven.

the only way i can
get a kiss
is with a dog biscuit
between my lips.

day one hundred and six.

eating special sticks
but hungry for
something intangible
who knows
what will fill
(or not)
my appetite soon.

day one hundred and five.

hm no messages
i won't send one
still nothing
okay in a couple of hours
if i get this cleaned
i'll send one
there
now don't check your phone until
you get there
nope
okay checking
nothing
damn
shouldn't have sent it
i just won't send one
tomorrow
to make up for it
god damn
oh oh
something
k not replying.

day one hundred and four.

is that heaven?
yes.
i'd trade the boy i don't have,
i'd trade my family,
i'd trade the last shard of my soul
i own
without even thinking about it.

day one hundred and three.

one day i'm going to date a chubby boy
and he'll be very cuddly
and maybe he'll like me a lot
and he'll tie dye with me
and like paper crafts
and will wear the clothes i make him
sometimes
if they work out
and we'll cook
and we wont have to try and impress each other
or act funny
it'll just be funny
we'll do fun things
he might be irish
he will be irish
he'll have dark hair and
those dead brown eyes
maybe hazel
and then
he'll leave
or maybe i'll leave
or one of us will die
or the pirates will come.

day one hundred and two.

to china and back
with some that don't belong
but have the right fit
since the shoe fits
and the buns go down
nicely.

day one hundred and one.

switched messages
hidden mixed messages
late in the evening
but early in the morning.

day one hundred.

you're polish

you must massage feet

you're poor

cooking wine is your reward

you're not pop enough

don't use that

pillow

or dem covers.

shiver with the timbits.

day ninety nine.

i'm not wasting time
i'm just spending it
in ways you wouldn't
want to.

day ninety eight.

finally free for a little while.
i shall be working on some of
the stuff i meant to do
all year round.
pictures...
are
a maybe.

day ninety seven.

a little nothing
over nothing
a few bruises
but still got
the paycheck
for reading dostoevsky.

day ninety six.

it seems
that i'm only one
continually humbling myself.
everyone else
can find praise in their
mistakes.

day ninety five.

best to start riding
the low horse
it hurts less
when you fall off.

pick wisely.

it's just probably not

a parody
or going to be one
it's nothing
even more so
nothing
than my
circus career
but at least this
nothing will
become something
one day when i get
my whole nothing
going.
was is it that the visible
are the only ones
considered
something.

day ninety four.

everything sounds
better
when you can hear it
more clearly.
that is except
if the message
is spat
towards you.

day ninety three.

INSTALMENT FOUR - HETERO + EXTRA

The only place in the small town of Newcastle that one could buy alcohol, closed at 6:00 every night except on Sundays (when it wasn’t open). This almost posed a major problem for a group of girls just ‘legal enough’, who arrived at the store at 5:55. It was a Friday night and really, what other choice did they have but to drink, after their long, one hour tutorial on Friday afternoons.

The girls knew exactly what they wanted, or rather, followed their friend who assumed the leader position to pick up exactly what she wanted (it was her turn to supply the real drinks, another to supply the mix and the last one to supply the dark and dingy basement which only got sufficient use on Friday nights, as it was completely too haunted to visit on the remaining days of the week). One mickey of vodka was all she could afford and it was all they would need – they didn’t plan to drink this slowly. The leader brought the bottle up to the counter with her troops right behind her and paid.

“Do you have airmiles?”

“What’s that?”

“That’ll be $13.95”.

They rushed out of the store with their bagged bottle of delight right before they got kicked out; the transaction had taken 3 minutes exactly. When they closed the door to the liquor store, the manager put up the closed sign with a sigh, hoping she wouldn’t have to deal with the awkwardness of accepting another fake I.D. that night.

The girls skipped home arm in arm, oblivious to how foolish they looked and eventually arrived at the musty basement in which they had already set up their cups and mix. Out came the bottle, and with a quick twist by the leader it was open, and poured into three glasses. The bottle itself was placed out of the way on a shelf, hidden in case a mother or father appeared downstairs.

All of the excitement of their I.D. working and talk of how it was ‘fair anyways because they were all 18 which is almost 19 anyways’, caused them to make their drinks disappear within the hour. Now red faced and hiccupping they had acquired that heavy, loathful thirst for more to drink. They decided to go back to the liquor store in hopes that the manager was still closing it down. Laughing at their new plan, they grabbed the bottle from the shelf and left, arm in arm, a little more unsteady this time.

They reached the store a convenient ten minutes later, though they almost became distracted by a dog in the catwalk they took, and collapsed against the glass door to look inside. The manager was nowhere to be seen, nor was anyone else, or any light for that matter. They tried the door; it was locked. Angry now at that ‘stuck up, snooty, stooopid fuckin’ airmile manager’ the leader raised their emptied bottle in the air and let it crash down in front of the store.

Satisfied with their destruction, and feeling drunk again, they left to go to try and find some pot to smoke from one of the stoners at the park.

The bottle lay smashed in twenty different pieces next to a squished cigarette butt.

day ninety two.

INSTALMENT THREE - HOMO + ETRA

Though not all of me is a part of my original self, the part that thinks, whatever part that is, stayed in tact and is still with me today, as I sit on the same shelf in a different location. I have been stagnant, bought, used, abused, smashed, thrown into bins, and melted down and had to start all over again. For ten years this has been my life. This cycle has happened so many times, as I suppose it has to other bottles as well, but no matter how many times I am abused then melted down, I have never forgotten my first time. I feel as if no bottle really does.

Ten years ago, I was probably (and still am, compared to brand new and educated bottles I see now) the most naïve bottle I knew. I had spirit, yes, but so did all of the other bottles. I had only been on the shelf a couple of days before I was carried out to begin the first cycle of many, and no bottle or otherwise had given me the slightest hint of how I was to think of myself. I wasn’t proud, but I thought I was worth something beyond $13.95, but hadn’t been put right. My first purchasers (whom I thought were to be known as my master’s at the time), even knew this; that while my spirit was worth $13.95, my shell, my body, was worth nothing. To them, or any of my later purchasers.

I know now but still reminisce. It was near closing time for my little store and my ‘masters’ had just made the deadline for buying me. I was put in a bag, which is a standard practice to be done to us bottles, as we are not allowed to be seen out in public (perhaps it would be too tempting for other purchasers?). A couple of moments later, the purchasers had arrived at their ‘home’ and gone into the ‘basement’. I found out two years after this event, after having been purchased by around the same size of purchasers many times, that they usually drink me in what is called a ‘basement’. Older purchasers prefer to leave me on the shelf for a while, or anywhere on the main level of their ‘home’s.

These purchasers, I now realize, were actually very kind, in terms of snapping away my virginity; they did it very quickly – I have heard horror stories of weak purchasers who have had to give it a couple of go’s before they got it. They were also quick to drain me of my value, which I was horrified to see. I was not in that basement long, and am still not usually in basements very long, unless I am forgotten underneath the couch.

My purchasers quickly tried to take me back to my original home, their faces bright red, which is a normal occurrence for those who have a lot of spirit in them. Angry at the closed door, for my store is not always open (due to the fact that the masters need to ‘eat’ and ‘sleep’), they smashed me on the ground and left me for dead. Little did I know then, that I actually could not die.

After moping all night to a neighboring cigarette butt, who explained my worthlessness to me, when the sun came up, I was swept up by my master and thrown into a bin. So soon after had I both experienced the loss of my virginity and the loss of my former shape, I also lost the shape of the very pieces that made me up, as I was melted and molded, filled and shelved, to experience it all over again.

day ninety one.

INSTALLMENT TWO: HETERO + INTRA

Ah was mindin’ me own

business one night when some o’
them pink things came to tha

store and got them a bottle,
yis, and ah know ‘zactly what happen’
to that bottle, it was next to me
all las’ nigh’ cryin’ and what not
like a sissy and tol’ ol’ smokey
(that dun smoke no more)
the whole thang.

They was fin’ly sold
an’ to tha pink things
which weren’t too big
er too small
jus’ bout the righ’ size
to be full o’ trouble.

Bottley said they took ‘er home
and they din’t waste no time,
they poured ‘er soul
out an’ used her up
soon as ‘er blindfold what was
ta’en off o’ ‘er. –cough–

Blech, even I git some o’
the smok’rs cough ah give.

Anyways, after that they dun had
no need fer the lil bottley.
course she was young and din’t
no one told ‘er that as
bein’ what pinkies an’
brownies an’ erryone
(ah really see no diff’rence buhtween

any o’ em big loomin’
usin’ things)

an objeeect, she wasn’t s’posed
tah have no life
beyond havin’ yer most precious
part o’ ya sucked dry, and yis she was
sucked dry, jus’ like me
couple’a hours afore.

So then whens they done
suckin’ er dry they take ‘er

righ’ back here! They

‘pparently din’t know tha
‘er home din’t want ‘er
back says bottley. er rather

said, she long gone now

that ‘er ‘ome is back open,
so they’s raise ‘er up real
high she says like jus’ as high
as the shelf she came off o’
and then smash she be in twenty
sparkly pieces.

Scared the las’ bit o’ smoke
outta me, I tells ya,
din’t expect no comp’ny
las’ night, figured I was tah be
‘lone fer good, after my ol’ master
used me up.
but bottley is gone now,
this mornin’ her real master’s
came back an’ sweep ‘er up
prob’ly tah go’n fix ‘er
‘er somethin’ but I dun know
ain’t no one ever sweeped me
up a’fore.

So now’s I’m alone,
jus’ thinkin’ bout that
bottley an’ hopin’
tha she be alright.