When Duty Calls
    Sequestered in oblivion
    With mini bar and ice cream cake
    Serviced by a bailiff
    Who controls our bowel movement
    Firing suction cup darts
    With fly swatter holstered
    He brandishes his attitude
    Before the young ladies
    With flash of overcoat
    Followed by laughter
    From team player observers
    Guarding our influence
    Like a prized possession

    With flick of a wrist
    The ad distribution unit
    Slowly glows into life
    Where we can be amused
    With almost two minutes
    Of commercial comedy
    Followed by seven minutes
    Of auto dealer assault
    Demanding you come right down
    Or be demeaned by peers
    Driving souped up hemi
    Multiple Orgasm GT's

    But this will not be
    As bailiff moves to block door
    His penis now withered away
    From the dehydrating effects
    Of mockery and contempt
    As two of his charges
    Dive through windows
    Opening into his soul
    Only to find nothing
    Of value or use
    Their own damaged goods
    Splattering on the street below
    In Rorschach shape
    Of a Mayan calendar
    Guaranteed for four years
    Or out the door
    Whichever comes first

    The room now pungent
    With the smell of piss
    And vinaigrette dressing gowns
    Is hosed down heavily
    Like a dog fuck breakup
    While a plate of Chinese bear claws
    With bile tubes attached
    And stale bunch of Hi-Ho Crackers
    In fish net stockings and stiletto heels
    Are passed round the room
    Like collection plate requests
    Begging a tithe for the bakers
    Just coming off of parole with butter
    Their rigs hidden in Bakers hats
    As they slip kites with jail house
    Cell phone numbers to bored housewives
    Who foolishly thought
    This Jury Duty shit would be fun