Seeds upon a crusty homie,
a crusty piece of bread, ee-yo, like Sting used to say.
So delis need to slap the knee collagen paste
on the sandwich you order and then stick in your face.
Homie, eat all, slap on your strong hot mustache.
"Ee-yo," Sting bests Duke Harkonnen
and grabs a worm shake,
a shake that he hoovers and munches,
a radish ground slow-mo down to pasty roughage.
But can you see,
how knee goo makes obstructions.
Sting chews, struggling tantrically through.
In the end, he’ll need buddha’s hot tea.
This jumbled sandwich is the first Ivanov's Beatles in many, many mad moons.