THE DAY’S HOT ENOUGH TO HATE.
HOTTER THAN A WHORE IN CHURCH.
IT’S SO HOT I COULD
SPIT AND IT WOULD TURN TO STEAM.
SO HOT
THE SIDEWALK IS TEACHING ME
HOW TO TAP DANCE.
HOT ENOUGH I’D
PAY FIFTY BUCKS FOR A
HOOKER TO BLOW ON ME WHILE WE
WATCH A BIRD BLOW ON A WORM BEFORE
EATING IT.
IT’S JUST LIKE MY LOCAL
CORNER SMOKING, LITTLE DOG YAPPING
GEEZER SAYS:
‘IT’S HOTTER THAN
TWO RATS FUCKING IN A WOOL SOCK
MID-JULY’.
THE TYPE OF HEAT WHERE
I COULD CATCH A FRIED FISH.
SO SWELTERING MY CHILDHOOD
PRIEST IS BEGGING TO DIE AND
GO TO HELL.
BLISTERINGLY HOT I SWEAT
MORE SOPPING WET THAN THE
LAST CUCUMBER IN A WOMEN’S PRISON.
THIS KIND OF HEAT CAN KILL AND
MAKE CHICKENS LAY OMELETTES.
IT’S SO HOT I COULD
START A BAKERY IN MY CAR.
HOTTER THAN A
CRACK SPOON, THAN A
THIRTIES HUSBAND COMING HOME TO
NO DINNER, THAN A
CANINE STUD SLOWLY CRAWLING TO
A BITCH IN HEAT.
SO HOT I CAN’T TELL WHERE
MY SKIN STARTS AND ENDS.
THE DAY IS SO HOT
HATE ISN’T EVEN A WORD ANYMORE.
IT’S JUST BULLETS FLYING
OFF MY HEAD ALONG WITH
ENOUGH OVERBAKED JOKES
TO MAKE A SECOND LAST
MORE THAN NOW,
LAST LESS THAN
FOREVER.