by Sycamore Smith

The wild dog fetches grenades
The drunken wraith wretches & fades
A schoolgirl twirls in the wheat field
Until a combine catches her braids

The princess picks nits off her lace
And gives her wrist a little spritz of mace
Cupid's so low that he loads up a bow
And he shoots himself full in the face
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My mother was a half-wit whore
She left me at her own front door
My father was a deacon who would often wake up reekin'
Of the sins he had condemned the day before
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If I hear you've been romancing Miss Ruth
I'm gonna cut you with a cancerous tooth
But first I'll hitch you up to a hell-bitch nag
And let her drag you half the way to Duluth

If I catch you trying to make Miss Trish
I'm gonna drop you in the lake, ker-splish
But first I'll lash bricks to your hands and your knees
So you can crawl into bed with the fish
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The mentalist straightens his spine
While his Rubenesque apprentice bends his mind
The two of them ride through the windy, windy night
On a levitated elevated line

Now I'm off to meet a marvelous wench
I found her name & number carved in a bench
I wouldn't mind at all if you're hot to join the ball
But if you're not, please pardon my French...