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Worm Quartet
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The Laudromat of Sin
The anti-fish from dildoland
Is marching down a mucus strand
That leads from Falco to Ayn Rand
With stops at Chad and Spain
While nine fat popes and two wet Jews
Guffaw and grunt and fill their loos
With milk squeezed from their underoos
And carbonated pain
A riboflavin travestry
Goes up and down the tapestry
That graces my new haggis tree
By cowlight and bi-nightly
And Christ the cumquat troubadour
Has stapled omelettes to the floor
And burned the bush from every whore
Whose curtains were unsightly
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A pox upon the vomit king
Who brandished forth his ding-a-ling
And then defiled everything
With Casios and roses
A pox upon the lying lips
That promised me fried paperclips
For now I'm eating beggin' strips
And shacking up with Moses
A pox upon this stupid song
Which sounds too dumb and lasts too long
As od'rous as a sumo's thong
And worse with every stanza
A pox upon the nipple tree
That I've been growing rectally
Since long division and E.T.
Had sex with Tony Danza
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Bony butter children sit and stare
At a shredded Hustler reduced to porn specks
But there's nothing in my underwear
That can't be found in a box of Corn Chex
And in the laundromat of sin
Your soul is dry, but your socks are burning
Did you wash your pants in rancid yogurt?
Cuz it sure smells like the Tide is turning now
A screeching wad of camel bile
Is hurtling glumly down the aisle
And genuflecting all the while
Like Nerfuls at a totem
And traipsing through the wiggling sod
A sentient screaming curtain rod
As subtle as a cattle prod
Delivered to the scrotum
The holy mane of Mr. T
Was eaten by calligraphy
Served with a side of sodomy
And doom and gloom and presage
So graft potatoes to your brain
And lubricate a whooping crane
Hello there, I'm John McCain
And I approve this message
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