Coo-coo-ca-choo

I want to wake up one day and find
the whisky and the words.
Before it's too late.

Before punctuations are thrown in prison
for misdemeanor and rioting.

Before September steals August's thunder
lightning, rain and the smell of wet mud.

Before the oceans eat us all up
as we brisk-walk away another Sunday morning.

Before you become preoccupied with
male pattern balding,
and I acquire a taste for young boys
and red lipstick.