7 ELEVEN

Recuperating madness in the back of my eyelash, 
Your mother buys you sneakers,
And some heavenly hash.
Corporation rumours circulate through my dashboard, 
As I rip apart the haimons of a circus of squirrels, 
Needling my noodles with a girl named Nancy, 
Rearrange your butt hair, make it look all fancy.

Your neighbors hiding in a box,
Your fish bowl, smell the juice,
Your cancer's turning yellow,
Your penis is chartruce.

Eric Weinstein licking all the bums of businessmen, 
He's so rich and lucky down at U of Penn.

My jar of Christmas fishies has already been restrained, 
And the lumpy christian retards are being cast into the sea of love with 
The rest of the God-loving soldiers of the IRA, 
Blowing the shit out of women and children, 
And watching Bob Hope's Christmas special, 
With a dead gook and some chicken.

Finger fucked patrol piss on the edge of see-through kilts, 
I walk on stilts you tall bitch.

Sinking down through the jaws of a metal corporation, 
My Steven's Nose Ring company is swallowed.
My toes manage not to fall off, 
But I can't say the same for my fingernails.
But they taste good when you pull
the horrid bits of sludge out from under them.
Even when a plump Indian dame comes knocking on my dashboard, 
I say "Voulez-vous couchez avec moi" of fuck me.
There's no way to register the importance of cafeteria on anyone's mind.
Why can't they see it's the root of all evil.

Oh I smell a fart,
I think its name is Bart.
Daryl Baldberry is a tart
His hair is a work of art.
I think its time to start,
Organization of Future Liberal Voters for an Egalitarian Society.
Gee what an original idea.
I am so smart,
I see some eyeballs in a cart.
Why don't we give them my heart.
San Francisco that is (Right Tony Bennett).

{POETRY}