the late jonathan larson is displeased

Vol. 3: Sleep soundly, concerned flautists, it's only condensation

tell us your secrets
o puddle of spit on the band room floor
from whence did you come?
from whose lips did you pass?
from what grimy inner brass?
why do you squeak and mourn
with each passing rubber Soul?

my indignance, by you, is disgusted
my damply philosophical spattering
lukewarm, from rusted inside
it's a gracefully bumpy glide
through the brass-ed shiny curvature of my false
intellect

a tractionless shoe-bottom
will slip and smear
ass meets concrete,
an acoustically-savvy floor -
brass players at the door
hoarding further deposits
in metallically-wound sacs

take caution: floor is slippery when wet