The golden mean of your imperfect existence.
But do you feel it like Johnny?
A man who never knew silence...
The beat of his heart was the bass for his brain.
The tap of his shoes, regulating the blink of his eye.
The knock of his thumb reverberating through his body like a crack of lighting on a tin hat.
Feeling every tic, every tak, bouncing inside like a drunk rugrat.
His livers tango to the salsa of his pancreas.
Trumpeting rectal comets in opulent flatulence.
Care for a taste?
The faded yellow of cowbell bings,
battle the golden green of the congas clangs,
crowding out the batty blue belly of the battered bass man,
who's greasy fingers gimp by the gassy grey grooves of the guitar gangster.
The psychedelic purple peace pipe prankster
pimps the pop piano,
while the azure amber of the accordion animator,
announce the bounce of the bubbling bazooka beggar.
Feeling it?
Oh yes, Johnny Boy! You feel it!
