Sunday morning babysitting my friend's kid.
George Shrinks on TV. Laundry in the washer.
If it's sunny later I'll put it on the line.
Soon the air will start to stink from the factories down the road. Crosswinds change in summer to make your head explode. The kids at the skatepark smoke drugs in the shade. The morning after skating, feels like I broke a leg. Or two. What's a guy supposed to do? Blog in rhyme to pass the time, and keep from turning blue. They're building a new ramp right next to the copshop with video surveillance for all the kids playing hopscotch with spraypaint cans decorating the stands writing tags in drag with dishpan hands.