Something fierce I wanna
stalk in on the two longest legs this town’s ever seen,
grab that no good by his fat-filled dome
listen here, baby,
you’re nothing but a hatless bastard.
No class. Strictly corpulent.
A badly-knit sweater
with a face that could make an onion cry,
let alone a gal.
After a handful of nooners
and a couple of upside-downers,
you don’t come round no more
you’re out on the town every night
and here I am all alone
fragile as Frida’s broken baby-maker.
So you’re out, buster,
out on your ear
You keep your chin up you hear?
Your chin up
and your crevices clean.
And the next time you unbuckle that mouth
to whet your whistle
or twist the truth to dip your pickle,
may the serpent,
that patron saint of liars,
spit upon you from unfathomable heights.