by Nick Gisburne
You’re gonna wanna reattach your head.
Get over it. You’re circuit boards and steel.
The bullet? Yeah, you bought the big one. Dead.
But heaven? That ain’t this, boy. This is real.
My place, my rules. This ain’t no public pound.
You’re jacked in, hard - illegal cyber grid,
The sweetest new-life body shop around.
You’re back. The rest is grits and gravy, kid.
The cherry on the cake? Oh, that’ll come.
You’re up for auction - Friday market, noon.
So pick that fuckin’ head up. Don’t be dumb.
You’ll be a wealthy woman’s plaything, soon.
It ain’t so bad. Sure, take a moment. Chill.
Now touch your toes, and whistle when I drill.
