too proud to taste like chicken
and wait til you taste (cue the mandolin)
the fried corona bat wings -- mmm, fingerlickin'
someone says, dig them Yeltsin munchies
and, I go, try these chaos crunchies
and all opiated up inside I feel release --
like Yankee Doodle Dandy disease.
.
Back in Lady Shanghai shattered
by the mirrored gaze of money --
the minotaur is the maze, oh honey --
I long for the opium parlors of yore
where I could stretch out and snore
in phantasmagorical wet market places
and chopstick thru the dim sum of infinite spaces
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