Don't Lick the Gravy Boat

Blue llama's got a limp and Bob's glowin' from the inside out... The street hums like it knows somethin' They just left the club before 3AM And the night... is not done with them yet. "Bob, what the hell did you eat?" she asked, as the snail blinked sideways with radioactive sass. "I think it was a glow stick," Bob slurred, or a breath mint that tasted like regret." The wind smelled like expired salsa and static. The sky hiccupped. Then they saw it, a gravy boat, sittin' on the curb like it owned the whole block. Porcelain shimmerin', kinda moanin' low, like it had secrets too thick to pour. "What is that?" said Bob. "I don't know," said llama. "Don't touch it." ... You licked it. "WHY did you lick it?" Something whispered from the mashed potato void, "Not all vessels are meant for sauce..." The llama's eyes rolled sideways, Bob glowed a brighter green. There's a gravy boat that knows my sins, and it's callin' from the roadside like a preacher in sequins. Don't trust the shine, don't taste the night, If you see a snail eatin' light, just cross to the other side. We were lost, just tryin' to find a meal... and ended up baptized in processed veal. Bob started speakin' Latin, or maybe it was Tex-Mex. The llama did the worm on the shoulder of the highway. Something inside the boat gurgled: "Take me to the house of waffles..." They did not question it. They knew better than to argue with possessed dinnerware. The neon signs started blinking in Morse code. The road curled like a snake havin' an opinion. Bob said, "If we make it outta this alive, I'm never eatin' again." There's a gravy boat that knows my sins, and it's callin' from the roadside like a preacher in sequins. Don't trust the shine, don't taste the night, If you see a snail eatin' light, just cross to the other side. We were lost, just tryin' to find a meal... and ended up baptized in processed veal. At the Waffle House, the waitress looked at the gravy boat... and nodded. She poured coffee like a ritual. "Some things," she said, "you don't eat... you survive." The syrup wept. Bob burped up light. There's a gravy boat that knows my sins, its ceramic heart beatin' loud under neon skins. The booth we sat in melted slightly, Bob was humming, llama's dancing nightly. We found truth where the toast is burnt, and in the sauce... some wounds don't want to heal. So if you see it by the curb... don't ask. Don't sniff. And don't lick it.