So,
you wanted to be a porn king,
my little rascal,
and you thought big
and you talked a good schtik,
going through all the motions
until you came to my conclusion.

It's all right, Jack, go on. Write poems
of ejaculation and I'll read them
on occasion. But please don't be breaking
all the mirrors in your house fucking yourself to death,
you might get cut out of your own show while it'cccs still
on the road.

Amen.

It slides in easily.

I slice my knife into your guts so so soft
you were the cause of it's blame
it was determined, you should know
my love is cause enough
So die, fuck,
you know why
you are a jazz musician
and took my girl.

I was kicked in the the face,
beat up and pulled away,
left astray,
So I took a little walk,
And ended up at the boulevard,
And as I glanced back at the road I had walked on,
I was amazed as to how far from home I had come from,
So I stared the city in the face,
And once more I was amazed,
To realize how much society had lost its grace,
It was never that hard to keep a steady pace,
But no one will raise a voice in this fake place,
So I carried on,
To this day I walk on,

Man! I've got a gassy dog,
a dauchund shaped just like a log,
who likes to lie about and fart.
He's got it right down to an art.

Silent but deadly is his way
(he could run a skunk away).
Maybe it's a sign he's older;
his gas has gotten worse and bolder.

All the walls are now off-white,
no longer are they pure and bright,
but we save on insecticide.
The bugs that don't die run and hide.