First you feather dust lust.
Then you peel the banana.
In front of an apricot thrust
your face without a bandana.
And you expect a Congo line
to march about your navel
singing auld ang zine
from a different angle?
I tell you that’s no art
to fart in the punchbowl.
You’re a wolf that has to fart
just before you growl.
Don’t force it, my son.
You’re mother’s in the oven
The witch is on the run.
Her Empathy’s been stolen.
We came out of the blue.
No beginning ending or middle.
You expect me to be true?
Oh go fiddle-faddle!