The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round

It's not advisable
To read Bukowski by day
And to watch documentaries about Burroughs by night.
"What a couple of shlamazels,"
Certain reasonable people might say,
But don't,
Because they know better
Than to pass their literary free time
With drunks and junkies.
It's enough grief and grievance
To make a rather ordinary middle-aged American mom
Feel that there is no crueler prison on earth
Than the YMCA gymnastics room
On a Tuesday morning,
Forced to sit in a circle
Of well behaved citizens
Pretending to think it's fun
Singing "The Wheels on the Bus,"
While the toddlers bolt for the door.
As the wipers go swish swish swish
And the mamas go shhh shhh shhh,
This rather ordinary middle-aged American mom
Can't help but recall
That Burrows, drunk and high,
Partying in Mexico,
Claimed to be a good enough shot
To shoot a bottle off his wife's head,
But wasn't,
And blew her face off, dead.
Burroughs dismally noted,
Years later,
That it was this incident
That propelled him to be a writer.
John Waters, with his pencil line mustache,
Laughed about it,
Because what else can you do
With a story so tragic,
It's comic?

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