Tool Of The Trade (Corpse Of Commissionaire)

I don't work with you,
but I don't work for you, either.
I am not your friend.
I am a tool that you pay to use.
a useful, replaceable tool.
you never need deal with me directly,
and that seems to make me somehow less
than you.
you feel secure thinking that I am not as smart as you are.
feel like a security guard.
you can feel comfortable talking about me behind my back.
I have been doing this for five years now and
I am beginning to grow accustomed to it.
that being said, your kind offends me.
if I saw you in the street I wouldn't give you the time of day.
I don't think you'd be able to handle yourself in a bad situation.
you would try to get behind me.
and there are days when I think I wouldn't let you.

Wayne Isn't A Real Person

Wayne is a real man's man.
he has steak and whiskey for breakfast
every single day.
he can build houses and he can sail ships.
he can make a woman come three times
without breaking a sweat.
when Wayne talks, people listen.
he can lift a wheelbarrow full of bricks
over his head with one arm tied behind his back.
he speeds all the goddam time but he never gets tickets.
Wayne pours whiskey down the throats of
one-legged crippled Indians behind the liquor store.
he's an unstoppable killing machine,
but the government's too afraid of him to
send him to war.
Wayne doesn't think his shit smells better
than yours.
he knows that it is the worst smelling shit
that you've ever smelled, and he's proud of it.
he was doing this kind of shit when you were still
suckling at your mommy's teat, you tinhorn.
Wayne's probably in the mountains somewhere
right now, licking deer blood off his his chops
and howling at the moon.
the moon is fucking full every day for him,
he has friends who work that kind of thing out for him.
animals follow Wayne for miles and miles,
tracking the steaming streaming yellow scent of his urine.
when nunneries and orphanages catch fire,
who do you think they call?
Wayne's got a special phone for that kind of thing.
once?
he got in a fight with an offshore drilling rig.
beat the bejesus outta that there platform.
didn't like the way it was looking at him.
he's gay for poetry, too.
did I mention that?
they done sent him upriver,
trying to cure him of his lust for the word,
and he spent his time teaching men to read.
Wayne holds within himself the cures for
everything that ails you.
he only listens to music that you probably wouldn't like.
does it that way on purpose, in fact.
gets a report from the local constabulary
on what you're currently listening to.
he's that cool.
he's been fucking Michelle Obama's throat...
that's a lie.
but everything else I've told you about him is true.
his penis looks kind of like a fire hydrant.
he has a special tailor for his pants.
he can control the weather.
I've seen it with mine own eyes.
he made me promise not to tell,
but,
it's true.
watched him whirl all across those parking lots
in the east end...
made it rain. I shit you not, my friend.
you want to tell stories about my friend Wayne?
you'll actually have to pay a special tax.
provisions have been made.
the money from the taxes goes to top of the line
carbon credits.
as a matter of fact, Bill and Melinda Gates don't
enjoy such incentives.
if my good buddy Wayne told you such blatant,
unconscionable lies,
you'd believe him.