5-12 Where Is The F'ing Cheese?

the queen of bedlam,
has smashed my fingers,
between the steering wheel,
of Broadway and Johnston street,
where I am stuck,
in her dry, daisy-plucked lover,
she muses to me, innocently,
I wish it were raining,
but her musings,
are horns,
and flashing lights,
turns signals,
and white cars,
I hate white cars,
and a dredded biker,
happily oblivious to his lollipop ways,
who takes my turn at
every stop sign,
if I didn't live here,
I'd flip him off,
and steal his lollipop,
but the queen is watching,
so I sit, and patiently,
play the pet,
while she rubs my fur the wrong way,
down Lovejoy,
my tail swishing under my ass,
ignoring,
the taxi driver who blows me a fat one,
wondering,
where the f' is the cheese?
she laughs,
parking my time clock of a car,
and leaves me,
blindfolded and gagged,
to wait for her babe, the Minotaur.