I have tasted human flesh
From the oven of
Lips and tongue;
Dripping well-dressed
In savory sauce,
To stir me to feast on.

We're all in an ant farm
Ants doing what ants do
They March around
and feed king queen
They March around on cue
There those who March
to different drummer
But they are very few
They're ladybugs
Under the rugs
Living in a zoo.


The Ant Farm lives!
The ant farm lives!
They are everywhere!
The Ant Farm lives!
The ant farm lives!
They live without a care
Ladybugs are ruled by thugs
They live in despair.


Folks, you'd better listen
Listen to this rant!
If you want to live
(If you don't fit in you can't)
Ants wear armbands...
Whitehats
The UN wears the pants.
There's a pretty boy
Who does just as he wants
If you want to live
You'd better be an ANT!!

Chorus 2X

If you're an agricultural enthusiast,
Or gifted tower dwelling urbanite,
I know a priest who’ll bless your cockerel, favorite cow,
pig, sheep (with a predilection for lambs), tractor and
two-seater outhouse,
(I once saw a priest bless Farmer Paul’s load of manure).
He’ll lift a hand over
dog, cat, gerbil, cockatoo,
Foster children, adoptees, naturals and the unnatural.

They will bless people in love;
they will bless their love;
But not the union born from their love.

All love, he will say,
Is Divine.

God does not bless sin, said Papa.

Tsk, tsk... it's only a blessing, for Christ's sake.

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

I often hide behind
The poetry I write
If you only knew
What I was going through

You might not come to grips
Or even come to like
This poet here
That keeps on fooling you

In and out of seasons
This reasoning of mind
Who's to say
What is false or true

Warmer comes the weather
Colder stays the heart
With straight face
No one has a clue

As I press pen to paper
In another roundabout
Way of making
Rhyming words for you

This whole time hiding behind
Theses simple words I write
Where no one has a clue
Of what I'm really going through