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
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
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
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...