Call me butter

I need the junk to keep it going. To keep me revving, to keep the stars spinning like kid toys, to inflate my sagging mind. To get Kerouaced. To get the things you don’t get any other way. You’re right. I’m going, going, gone. It’s too late. You’re too late. Just let me spin into butter like Little Black Sambo--nix all that racist stuff though—with the tigers bearing down on me. That’s right, you leave them with nothing but butter and you slide right through their claws. So there, you can never have me. You will never ever get to me because I’m already gone…