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Where are the Handkerchiefs?
Keegan T. Burkhart earn'd his way 'nto Tampa Tribune
after "screaming obscenities early this morning [...].
[But] when a deputy tried to get him to calm down,
Burkhart dialed up 911 to tell dispatchers he didn't
want to go to [fucking] jail."
The Ray-Ban men cuff him and drive 'm to the nearest
Starbucks where he asks for a 107° latte in b-flat major.
"$4.59," she bots, and extends her palm, but changes
'er mind. "We only accept wallet cash, but Starbucks
Bayshore accepts money clip cash." (...) Once there,
the walls make a run for it, but the door freezes like deer
in headlights. Thoroughly, an officer knobs its turn while
the other downs its pat.
"Just as I suspected," declares an officer. "Termites!"
For today, they slap a warning and power walk t'ward
the labor serbs. Later on, they take Burkhart to the day
care where alligators swallow shoes alive and beauticians
confiscate mustaches.
Without shoes, Burkhart is paralyzed, and without chairs
(also eaten), sitting is a fairytale, so he crashes 'nto a stack
o' plates, destroying them. But without plates, eating joins
sitting's fairytale, and the deputies stole Burkhart's sip lid!
Burkhart tries to weep but realizes he is unable to do so.
