Gourd full of black swampmud
trail of filth back to
the guardrailed night
Nazi concentration camp of filth
Church on fireworks, fireworlds
Roid Prince
angular rays, an entire carwash of filth
Impresario Dawson
On a chain, a wet stone
arpeggiated at the end
Glory Highway
the final mile was on a pole of light
the rollerskates trailed out
candy tape
which the children, instead of chewing
actually sang at as they ate
II
Reparte, I’ll get you blind
on my rib-eye
If you don’t got it you need it
Bread on your rib-eye
Staticked you out, girl
I’ve got the thank the
rib-eye
It feels so good to meat
I’d like to thank Sir Rib-Eye
Regard daughter, but I dreamt of
the son, Cashwad
