Death Smells Like Bleach in the ICU
(For Tammy)

Cleaning up the little things
immaculate, and the potent
dilators, the anti dilators
the balancers and the optic fibers,
the dross of modern man,
all that bleach baby slag.

I know jazz. It sounds like that.
Real good, like a laugh in the face
of danger. Ka-ching tchsshh,
bleach baby slag. Dross and Fosse.

Hey there Tams we miss your
blue light specials,
bleach baby slag. Rag doll.
Polly wolly doodle all day,
bleach baby slag, you're
whistling the laudenum
a fine good tune. Ka-ching tchsshh,
bleach baby slag. Dross and Fosse.

Once upon a midnight
ring a ling a ling
ching ching ching
hit the keys on your way out
would you Tams, we've
got bleach baby slag to sing.
The other noises, well that's just annoying.

Lights done up in the curtains
charcoal on my bodice
my ripped torn bodice
a red deal with a bonnet
slim heels and toe tappers
mean old guys named Joe.

Bleach baby blues
and death smells like
the bleachwater that the baby
died-in, mean old guys named Joe.
Cops racing in to the speakeasy
cafes closed on a sunday,
mean old guys named Joe.
Picking up tin cans full
of bleach water blues
and all the UDAs calling home.