Life goes on and I still like bologna,
not the pale type,
but the dark speckled kind.
A couple of hot fried bologna sandwiches,
with red ripe tomato,
a big slice of onion,
I often enjoy one of these in the melancholic part of my mind,
that I some way deified over the years,
but recently it has gotten to the point I don’t hardly recognize the place anymore.
Everything is vaguely familiar,
but all the people are different,
speaking in foreign tongues.
I asked one of the occupants where I could find a fried bologna sandwich,
he had no fuckin’ idea what I was talking about.