Fan Letter

Dear Sirs,

As a poet, I must tell you about my day.
This morning I was driving to work in my little car,
The kind often buffeted by the wind.
It is a red car, named after a planet.
I was listening to the Platypus Rising show.
A pleasant song came on; a man sang about “my katy girl”
Then,” I want to stick my finger in your pooooop shoot.”
OK.

But the DJ made a stormy disclaimer finishing up
By saying he would never play your band’s music EVER AGAIN
He must believe it is important to suck the dick of the FCC
Or he believes he is afraid of the FCC’s fictionally long dick.
His fear makes him angry, thirsty, and weak. Or so I believe.
Then I got to work and parked my car.
Took my carcass inside.

I was assigned a new patient with Schizoaffective Disorder.
I can’t tell you his name.
He wanted to write a letter to his cousin. “She works upstairs, I think” he said.
“I know her,” I said, “she works in the float pool.”
He didn’t understand.
That float means “from place to place” and
“pool” means a group of people.
So he wrote on the envelope: LISA J- FLOAT POOP

Afterwards Dr. A. interviewed him
The patient had disrobed
Before taking a huge shit on the floor by the door
Which I of course pushed open.
He told me “There’s no toilet in my room.”
But there most certainly is.
When I looked, it was filled with cups and wash rags.

Thank You.
A Fan