10/6

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
my brain just went splat, spit
gore, alleyways flush with flesh and bone,
scarlet stone stained agitated tones.
Violence! Violence! for twelve pence
and not a shilling more,
I'll be your self-inflicted whore.
Mind, would you mind, toss Gutter out!
Rot rot rot, these rivulets lie
in a state of regret so I imagine this and that
'cause I don a mad hat, and rarely underwear.
I kid, I kid, don't need that on video.
Nudity? That's fine, I meant tea time,
one lump or two, I've got two. In my pants!
Chance rhymes with that, acid in the Thames
is the most plausible explanation
for orthographic prestidigitation, peyote
from somewhere beyond the sea.
Bobby, sing another one 'cause I can't,
even in looking glass fun. Ask my eye,
'tis no fib, rib-tickler -- listen,
and bring some of that old fungal magic, too:
ask twenty baroque or an austere two,
ask 'why is Poe like a china hutch?'
That went over like a lead balloon,
so I should skedaddle
and paddle towards tunes with or without a fiddle.
Play that funky music, organ grinder!
No, it really does grind organs, yours,
if you don't shut your fucking piehole
and who doesn't know a cannibal
or three? They even made a movie,
filmed in the usual place.
Would I, me, like to be served to we on a plate?
There's the other! I never lie.
The reviews are in, hit rewind,
they're all the same all the time,
ever listless hour fast-forwards this single-camera crime.
Inherit love, hate from yellowed days -- wait, wait, wait,
scrub a dub blood, it never goes away.
You can't kill what's already dead.