B.S. Johnson

Write a book of debt everyone must pay

Exact revenge in a grotesque way

Build a Taj Mahal on vacation time

The kiddies frag the sap before the ink is dry

It's as good as any joke I know

Write a book of leaves shuffled by the wind

Two unbound lives, orderless and grim

Set up to ensure failing miserably

Sublimate a world into poetry

The make sure your last intention's known

You were dead by forty-two

There'd be no rigid form for you

Jammed into a plot where you never would fit

A tiny manuscript with a hole cut in it

As you drifted off to sleep, my mother set bedtime for me

Terrycloth robe with a hand-me-down fit

Playing in the bath with a warship in it, yeah