Sweet rutabaga on rye, I got dem
no googlin' no writin' no postin' blues.
Like Abu G, I can't recall
if I've ever had rutabaga;
turnips, oui. Not lanterns, jack.
I miss Halloweenie, sniff, do you, Miss?
Missed me, missed me,
now you've gotta self-flagellate.
Hey, crusty blood, flake, fly away
like a kite thrown by a bird,
a vulture, natch, gnawing them bones,
chili chocolate marrow.
Morrow, more macabre musings,
tuning, tuning finds me turning
where? Here, there is here, everywhere.
Hear ye, hear ye, we're continuo
the land war en Asie. Vizzini?
My sentimentalists exactly, chuckles.
Wrack this track, a living wreck, yawn,
bright lights, dead city, boring bores
fantastically generic holes, phantasmal force.
Sigh, geek spellwork works so fine in the mind,
now if you don't mind, Miss, don't miss,
'tis time for a sloppy wet one or twice.
Why are you flying free, come slither,
let me touch thee and make nice. That broom,
brings out your naughty. Hmph, benched
like Big Z, I see. Bench everyone, and how, now
this verse, quittin' time, take the pine,
we coulda been somethin' baby.
Yeah, a box for one is just fine, simply sublime.