Fill up the bucket, bro—
we’ve got a fire to start.
Since you were here
G.B. is all I do.
Diageo, Brown Forman?
They’re renting my liver,
crevassed in terms
of Jackie Dan and Johnny Walk Walk.
The flies, they can have it;
they can have the closet.
The doves urged me to ask,
Who cooks for You?
This is actually my own stuff.
I’m smokin—fresh outta the garden.
The .gov? P-shaw.
They’ve got other raids to run.
I’ll put this down on page 61.
We’re all writin books, mon frer,
only some of us
are writin em down.
The Writing of John B. Randall 