March 9, 1994.

All I do is counterfeit Bukowski.
That drunken bastard beats me to everything.
Whisky, wine, gambling, girls
That drunken bastard.
Ask the pickpocket or the pawnbroker,
They, all of them, know.
See?
Ask the counterfeiter or
The man sleeping in an alley under a sheet of paper.
That drunken bastard.
Cigarettes and beer and coffee and
Good night, sweet
Little
Motherfucker.
I’m the counterfeiter,
The clown, the mime.
Some say
Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
Fuck them
they’re counterfeiters like me.
But at least I know it.
At least I know
That drunken bastard
Beat me to everything,
All I can I do is mimic in the margins,
And mime my way into the minds
Of mindless millionaire mockingbirds.
That drunken bastard.