"You can do this shit with your brain?"
A few cry. "That's about all
he can do," intones the Thunderbird
marionette socialite
with cocktail and mink coat.
"That's what he thinks,"
she snorts.
I must demur -- "I am
admittedly talentless. I can twirl
my nipples but cannot move
from where I'm rooted on the floor.
Both feet are nailed there;
the only chore I can perform
is as a lawn jockey --
furniture for you."
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