The Love Song of J. Alfred Bro-Rock

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Let’s jet, both of us, bruh,
When the keg is tapped and tossed in the pool
like some model lying naked on a raft.
Let’s bounce, past poser shitty clubs
The girl-drink woots
of swiping wrong on one-night dubs
And Red Bull promos with dollar drinks:
Pukes that’ll come on like a wasted chick
In a skimpy black dress
Nagging at you with some bullshit begging…
Fuck, don’t even ask, “Why?”
Let’s take off and scope it out.

In my bed the babes cum and go
Drinking all my Michelob

The e-cig vapor that smells like Cinnabon and incense,
The vaping yuppies in skinny jeans whose pens puff the incense,
Lick their lips at some dumbass text,
Stare at a screen all day in boardrooms,
Grab all the pussy that they can on Tinder dates,
Slip out the window, leap to an Uber,
And having had one too many at happy hour,
Hurl in their fancy satchel, and start to snore

And sure, bruh, there’ll be time
For that vapor that e-cigs blow,
vaping like yuppies with their incense pens;
Chill, chill, bro. We got time
To manicure our goatees and sideburns to impress the ladies;
There’ll be time to get stoned and jerk it,
And time for getting topped off in our Oakleys
Like some threesome we could totally get;
One for you and one for me,
And still time for a hundred games of beer pong
And a hundred keggers and shotgunning,
Before the Fantasy Football draft.

In my bed the babes cum and go
Drinking all my Michelob

And yeah, man, there’ll be time
To think, “Am I crunk?” and, “Am I crunk?”
Time to turn your hat backwards and fight,
With a bunch of losers in the middle of the frat house —
(They’ll whine: “This bruh is whipping our ass!”)
My new Tevas, my Kobe jersey all tight on my pecs,
My shorts long and sweaty, but held up by a shoestring —
(They’ll all whine: “But his rock-hard abs and lats are the shit!”)
Should I try
Impressing these dicks?
In my dorm room there was time
For Jackass and Lime-A-Ritas to be pounded while we watched.

Yeah, man, I’ve got so much tail, so much tail:
Have smashed in closets, kitchens, bathrooms,
I’ve counted my lays with used condom wrappers;
I know the orgasm moaning with a moaning call
Through the walls of my roommate’s room.
So, what the fuck should I do?

And, shit, I’ve known the tits already, known ’em all —
The tits that make your jaw drop mid pickup line,
And when I’m horny, jonesing to bust,
And when I’m pinned down and wriggling on the floor,
Then how am I not gunna
Tap that ass deep to sleep into all hours of the night?
So, what the fuck should I do?

And me, I’ve known the legs and ass, known ’em all —
Legs that are curvy in leather boots and garters
(But in the blue light, scratchy with unshaved hair!)
Is it Axe body spray
That makes me get this way?
Arms tied to a bedpost, or chained to the bed.
So, what the fuck should I do?
And where the fuck do I start?

Should I just be like, I’ve belted Jager Bombs at clubs.
And watched drunk girls make out on my lap
Like some dirty old man spying out of a window? …

I should’ve been a pair of Air Jordans
Squeaking across the floor of the Boston Garden.

And the beer goggles, the hangovers, sleeping like shit!
Woken up by digging nails,
Groggy…spent…or she stays over,
Farting in bed, under the covers.
Am I, after the stank is unleashed,
gunna be able to breathe without a damn crisis?
But, man, I’ve crashed and barfed, crashed and barfed,
Even though I’ve seen my phone (screen slightly cracked) brought up to 4G on Verizon,
I’m not a techie — and I’ve got no startup stock;
I was the best high-school linebacker in the county,
And I’ve made water boys hold my varsity jacket, and laughed,
And, you know, well, I was the best.

And will it be a kickass night, after all,
After the shots, the weed, the coke,
In the basement, messing around on the foosball table,
Will it be massively kickass,
To have popped every bottle on the shelf,
To have tea-bagged every dude I know,
To roll up with trucknuts on my bumper,
To be like: “I am toasted, bro, come to rage and party all night,
Come to raise hell and tell you, tell you that I am gay” —
If I, biting a pillow on my bro’s bed
Then said: “That’s not what I meant. No. Stop;
That’s like totally not true.”

And will it be all good, afterwards,
Will it be all good all the time,
After the keg stands and the tailgating and the pissing on the streets,
After the beer bongs, after the chugging, after the panties and bras on the floor —
And fuck, I just want more? —
God damn it, none of this shit’s coming out right!
But like a FaceTime call breaking up on my fucked-up phone:
Will it be all good all the while
If some dude, settling a bet or tossing off on a shawl,
And clicking on a Pornhub video, was like:
“Nah, that’s not the one,
Not even the right category, at all.”

Fuck it! I’m not Tom Brady, don’t even want to be;
I’m a personal trainer, one that’ll chill
With a subtweet, start a beef or two,
Give a heads up to Brady; no doubt, that tool,
Sucking up, happy just to be there,
Awesome, savage, and totally blazed;
Sneaky as fuck, but scoring sick seats;
Sometimes, sure, sort of wicked lame —
Sort of, sometimes, a dumbass.

My balls itch…my balls itch…
I’m gunna wear boxers instead of briefs, bitch.

Should I tie my hair in a Man Bun? Will I tilt that peach schnapps?
I’ll wear a flannel over my hoodie, and get in tight with all the cops.
I’ve heard Phish jamming, on and on.

I don’t think they’ll play again.

I’ve seen them like a dozen or so times
Watching them jam hard from the back of my truck
When all my bros are getting blown in the back.
We’d all pass out after smoking some kind bud
And downing Coronas topped with limes and salt
Until security guards wake us, and we bolt.

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