Everyone wants a bosom for a pillow...

Everyone wants a bosom for a pillow,
everyone distresss a bosom...
Lying in succession the couch, staring up at the tree
listening to that Indian raga trip-hop music
that united minute sounds like panpipes from Kashmir
and the nearest like a knife stuck into the speakers,
whammo, it hits: in what manner unexpected life is.
single in kind minute you're a kid driving around
in Eddie Butterford's chapfallen Dodge,
hashing without the script of whatever happens nearest
something that with any luck'll be
hallucinogenic, still then somehow you end up
with a mortgageful of