There’s people I haven’t met called John Randall.
There’s a guy who’s sick and shoeless in bed called John Randall.
There’s a man with tattoos and a tie on, singing a song called “John Randall.”
There’s a fifty year-old governor who just drove his precocious
aide to the top of a hill named John Randall.
There he is in bed again, still with his shoes off, John Randall.
They’ve got their arms around each other, asking someone to take a photograph.
With a pillow over his head, John Randall.
They don’t realize it’s a tabloid reporter, byline John Randall.
He’s in the back of a portrait of a bunch of people in an apartment drinking Bud Light. He is drinking a beer called John Randall.
He’s holding it there — not someone else, John Randall.
In the seventies his hair was way long and wavy, John Randall.
He has drinking buddies in college and there is lots of promiscuous sex, John Randall.
Out to pizza with his family, look at that cute dog there, oh, that little squirt, look at him he’s so cute. Now the dog is barking, the barking is driving him nuts, actually making him physically sick, causing him to think, God, if a dog is this bad, how the hell am I gonna have a kid named John Randall, Jr?
More of this ridiculous poem...