wait did that just turn into a poem about poetry. i am so totally not voting for you, mike.

THE MAN ALONE AT CUMBERLAND FARMS THE OTHER NIGHT WHO BOUGHT MILANO COOKIES WITH A $20 BILL

Will he read it? Are you warm yet?
If he doesn't, will you tie me to a
sheepdog who will never brag that he's
"people watching, you know. I don't get
bored: I'm a people watcher." Wrong.
In 1954, the last documented case of
"real people" buried a milkshake recipe
and two coupons for used boxing gloves
outside Sparks, Nevada. Don't have a fit.
No points to get from me, I'm afraid.
I'm so afraid of overdoing it, always.
Like this, this is just for more friends.
Ten to my keychain, six to my Rub List.
We'll raid something. Grade movies. Bowl.
Chuck carrier pigeons down the tunnel:
"Hi! Hi back! Hi back back! Yum, the
sun is a little jealous. He's not a
secret, like our handshake spark."
You're my friend because you're not
"I'm a person"-this and "I'm real"-that.
You'll never demand I check you for lumps
or call me on behalf of some hallelujah
screw. You'll never stuff a prairie dog
in my freezer with a note: LUV U MIKE!!!
This army of ours, this army of ours.
I know what you're thinking and yes,
you can. Step one: Is it dawn yet?
Is that chocolate? Are you cold?