Talk of one, thought of none

... . Another night of too much cough syrup.
I'm awakened by the incessant ringing of a telephone.
I still have dreams caked in the corners of my eyes,
And my mouth is dry and tastes shitty.
Again, the ringing.
Slowly, I bustle out of bed,
The remnants of an erection
Still lingering in my shorts
Like a bothersome guest.
Again, the ringing.

Carefully, I abscond to the bathroom,
As to not display my manhood to others.
There, I make the perfunctory morning faces
Which always seem to preceed my daily contribution
To the once-blue toilet water
That I always enjoy making green.
Again, the ringing.

I shake twice like most others,
And I'm annoyed by the dribble
That always seems to remain,
Causing a small acreage of wetness
On the front of my briefs.
I slowly, languidly, lazily, crazily
Stumble into the den
Where my father smokes his guitars
... . I mean, cigars... .
In his easy chair.

I know ALL about easy chairs.
And then I sing a song for my friends :
Jesus is my boyfriend !
Jesus is my boyfriend !
You can't have him,
Because Jesus is my boyfriend !
Ringing, ringing, dang it !

Goddamn, mother fuckin' son of a bitchin' ringing !
I walk into the kitchen and I stare blankly
At that shreiking plastic bastard.
Since it keeps ringing, I know it's her.
And since it keeps ringing, she knows it's me.
We are the world.
We are the children.
We are the ones who make a darker day,
So lets start killing.

There's a choice you're making,
We're sparing our own lives.
It's true we make a darker day,
Just you and me.