Green grass carpet,
Brown dirt floor.
Sold the last Marino,
Inflated, but impotent.
Like the toothless grin from a whore.
A home out on the range.
A home away from home.
Amid the dry, dust-bowl Spinifex
That floats and sticks to succulents.
Know this: it’s broke
And it’s never getting fixed.
It looks strange on the surface,
But even stranger on the inside.
Red knuckles, swollen
Bone inside stretched canvas.
Buried my last Marino,
Because the casinos have my lady
Poking and prodding
For a future foreboding.
It’s eroding to the core
And leaves you with nothing.
Well less than nothing.
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