| I’m kinda pissed. | |
| Yes, sir. How can I assist? | |
| Wanna see what I do when I run out of pills? My head gets fucked up and it’s making me ill I’ll have to stay up, cuz, shit, I can’t get no sleep Where’s my momma, huh? Cuz my sheets are in a heap. | |
| I’m sorry, Mr. Mathers From this I gather You’ve dialed my number because you cannot slumber? | |
| Hey, bitch, you gotta get me summat to pop I smoked shit loads but I need tabs to drop And no Pammy Anderson is gonna help me to the land of nod Don’t you run your mouth, what kinda place is, this? God! | |
| This is not a pharmacy, Mr. Eminem Unless you want something feminine I can provide tampons or pads Or nappies for incontinent dads | |
| I’ll bust your lip if I don’t get something to make me weary Take your best shot, you don’t wanna get me mad and teary I’d kill my momma cuz I need something to make me nap I’m so on edge I can’t think up no more of this rap | |
| We are not here to make you soporific Though I thought your last CD terrific I can’t assist you in your need to doze Maybe you should try harder to compose | |
| Only way I know is to get me 40 winks Go get me a script, you got Ambien methinks Put yourself in my shoes, I saw it in your brochure Get off your skinny ass, I ain’t a faggot or kosher | |
| I think you mean ambience Just a minute and I’ll call an ambulance Agitation, insomnia, and amnesia Just because we couldn’t please ya | |
| Come on, bitch, I got platinum outta my cooze but gimme reds, yellowjackets, give me fucking blues I got a trigger on your pussy so gimme Tuinal, Gimme Halcion, gimme Mogadon, it ain’t your funeral | |
| Drink your milk and you will drowse Hug your teddy, you big girl’s blouse If you want I’ll tuck you up And maybe that will shut you up | |
| If you don’t want a lawsuit, help me be a somnambulist Forget it, no pills, and no booze, I’ll have one off the wrist Sorry I pissed you off, thanks for all your trouble Now, can I picture Britney Spears or maybe Betty Rubble? | |
| Not at all, it’s been my pleasure Anything else, I am at your leisure But to stop my housemaids having issues May I suggest you use some tissues |
Steve Finbow lives in London. His fiction, essays, short plays, poetry, and stuff is in, or will soon be in, 3am Magazine, The Beat, Big Bridge, Dicey Brown, The Edward Society, Eyeshot, The Guardian, InkPot, Locus Novus, McSweeney’s, nth Position, Pindeldyboz, Taj Mahal Review, Tattoo Highway, Thieves Jargon, Tin Lustre Mobile, Über, Wandering Army, Word For/Word Word Riot, Xtant, and Zacatecas. He writes the bi-weekly cultural column Pond Scum for Me Three, where he is also a contributing editor, he is associate fiction editor for Absinthe Literary Review, reviews the odd book for Stop Smiling, and is a writer with Quarantine Theatre Company. A longer bio and links to his work exists here: http://www.methree.net/Masthead/finbow.html.
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