Fuzzy and smokey, creamed and strained
Clap on, clap off, cornered and drained;
Seeing is sawing, kneeing and gnawing
Hammerhead rhythm, red herring brain.
Do you want more sentimental sleaze?
More eyelinered fat kids, diseased?
Perhaps Superman will fly in and drink gin
With you and your uncle's mad niece.
(I like my flatliners flat, my beer strong
My ghosts to stay dead, my wood to last long
Forty acres and a mule is not enough
Give me your head, I won't be too rough.)
Slippery and slimy, or scaly and dry
Cankered and cancerous, bloody well wry;
Being's believing, but knowing is fleeting
Fifty steps down to the what and the why.
Would you like more sedimental drudge?
More holier-than-thou septic sludge?
Perhaps Saint Peter will come box your ears
And leave with a wink and a nudge.
(I like brats with kraut, my demons in bottles
My kittens with cream and my train at full throttle
Forty days, forty nights is nothing to me
I don't want your soul, but I'll take your body.)