It Is Still Too Early For The Macintosh

Sombrero Days Are UpOn Us,
GunSmoke, HeeHaws And Cool Handed Lassos,
Greasy Kisses From Those Musky Tavern Whores Whose Pale Bosoms Do Throb
For Ways Under The Table,
Powdery Soft Like A Motherly Touch So Feigned
To Fan The Flames From A Cheater's Sleeve,
Dusk Beyond The Horizon And Beyond The Dust,
Enough Trust To One Night Steal A Stallion From Under The Marshall's Runny Nose,
To Get Those Short-Lived Steak Meals By The Fire-Lit Grotto
And Whiskey-Out The Fall From A Century AWay... Washed Up...
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Trails At The Boot Strapped Of Every Wakeing Hour,
ToWards MythoLogical ReMemberance Of Faded Documentary Stills,
Nuggets In The RiverBed...
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Holes In The Sky...
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Holes In Your Hats...
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Holes In Your Lives.