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Step in the lawn, I keep the foot, peepIn the pot go 6 degrees of cooked geeseBoiling, blitz the beach of mushed peasOver 10 meat hooks with a blister eachI’m all pincer, fever-y hoodie on, hoodie offSweat through his E.T. sheets to the worry dollsNever met a quite storm That didn’t grow into a choir of colliding hornsThat go click click clack, in territorial syntaxSitting on the porch with his lids pinned backPinball wiz in a thimble of sinsI’m a symbol of whimsy abridged, kiss me I’m deadNursing a mystery DayquilLed Zep staring daggers down page mill How prey tell do he sit prettyWhen the ol’ 1 2 unglue in a tizzyPlease hold for the don’t play dull boyClick, I am not a page or a pull toyCame in the door and the floor is lavaKilljoy if your core more Normal RockwellBorn home sick for an invisible addressBat shit, bumble and bat around catnipOne black heart katamari massivePacked in a fat category 5 rat nestNose on his sleeve, holes in his inner peaceRobot phone like a tentacle of flippancySongtexteI hate you, hate you moreNo I hate you infinity, and Pangaea break into smithereensInterlude presto change-oIf it move too quick, oh whey ohRight brain go white train RamoMoustache any old Monet, “no!”Merrily merrily merrily merrilyIn a cobweb tomb on a hotbed of heresyFrog men schooled by the god Ed EmberlyPull dog sleds and exhume Dead KennedysBent, moth into kerosene awfulA caution to straw men lost on vaudevilleA-morally mixing business with 144 dixie whistlersLawn chair, strong man twisted whiskersNascar bic in his missing fingersOutcast from a system of kiss-the-ring-ersAre you privy to the misadventuresIt’s electricMeeting in the middle of the streetWith a lethally modified piccolo peteThere is admittedly an incredible mystiqueTo meddling in the reason a city won’t sleep48 strings of 12, that ring ring ringWhiz bang, jingle bellsAnd melt bootleg G.I. Joes to black taffyClassic, fire in the hole backdraftingFold wild life out of wolf pack wrappingFull moon, bad knee, wool hat, caffeineTNT plunger in all caps, ACMEBlast off half of the whole damn map screenNo sling no spearI’m a patchwork of 86’d springs and gearsWho been stung by an unlinked pinky swearDuring his what-in-the-fuck-was-I-thinking yearsHm, maybe an awkward phaseLike his acne and sophomore fadePlayed, calling all out-of-work action figuresIt was death by saturn missiles Aus Songtexte Mania