Weened for greatness, I explore the night with giant footsteps and vulgar styles I dance on the face of love and howl at starving young artists like a bank manager on the pillows of fat daddy dissonance Weened for greatness, I finger the bitch up right with full winded moves of highly intoxicated denial, and strokes of sheer genius, condoms and lubricants. My haircut is moody, as I am weened for greatness asleep on some other motherfucker's floor. Waiting in the wings of concrete hero-less slaughter houses, and wedding receptions by the trailer pull. Weened for greatness, I stroll in tight boots of rare snake skin, and thick belted waist bands. Where women paint everything oil pastel and off green. Puddles of vomit and stained ten thousand dollar dresses by the black TCP car full. Weened for greatness, I'm on one week off the next, I sleep at random intervals mostly planned to be while your mouth is open. Weened for greatness, I have no idea how my clothes get on or off, but I have some idea where I stole them from. Weened for greatness, I cook fantastic dishes of irrelevant bullshit smattered in diced garnishings. I talk to myself with or without purpose, and brag of frequent flyer miles, and knowledge about mixed beverages, and vacuuming fetishes. Weened for greatness, I'm out to fuck myself blind Hopefully in front of the biggest herd of retards, ever.