Campaign to Eradicate “Life by Default” (cont.)…

It will probably take some time,
And might be a bit of a pickle,
There must be a way to mix my wine,
With ridin’ my big ass motor-sickle.

I’d like to bend some pipe,
Ease it into the world without hype.
Braid into a three-way twine,
Celebrating the results with that wine.

Why do things come in threes,
Cuz dimensional boundaries hold the keys?
The father, son and Holy Ghost,
Supposedly the religion with the most?

I’d like to think the threes all tend,
To have to do with a start, a journey, and end.
I could be, I am, and therefore I was,
All bound around and wrapped just because.

A pipe is but a conduit—a transport if you will,
Sending stuff from A to Z seems not much of a thrill.
A tool to channel energies with forethought or the lack,
From origin to destination, all points in-between and back.

On my sickle I rip down the pike,
Which really is like a type of pipe.
With flarings and bearings and chrome glarings a blur,
Some pipes roar and bark and some idle and purr.

Wine is another pipe of sort,
It transports much with every snort.
And to drink and ride I shouldn’t outta,
With numbing effects to my medula-oblongota.

So I bend the pipe with all my might,
Then ride my sickle out into the night.
And when I’m done and I know its time,
I sit and ponder the threes with wine.