i’m having brick
fust w/my fan.
we hang out, happy
as strewn pronouns
playing second fiddle.
but we don’t really like
you, says the fan, shov
ing air all over my face.
the fan’s heir. the fangs
hear. they say, hey, hey,
the gang’s all here, but
the gang is in hysterics,
while you’re left crying,
remembering every
thing, especially
the fact that
you’re not a
member of
any gang.
