Friday, November 11, 2005

Wither on 'til lonely death

People hopping, dudes hopping. Everybody getting their workish on,

Step right up to America’s house, and play with Marty all day long.

Bastardize, this basket case, and turn people stone to mad,

Frumpy dress pulled over her head and dirty time did beckon.

Kill a bad guy, catch him asleep, and sleep thee will whenever’s cold.

The one, the only, the booze drinker curse, and pissed old man is sold.

And show goes on, and hair grows long, and eyes flicker blind to bone,

But already left sight of mommy dearest, and found yourself alone.

Done one, done two, third time, that’s you, rotten sick and bloated.

Furry things and happy smiles and path that gets the golden shoes.

Rest on grassy nothing mades, and play with medal of malaise,

Despite ‘ol grim that found your gaze and brought you off to lower haze.

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