In a land of 93 people
lived a preacher and a nun
In a church without a steeple
they professed to 91

The sermon was quite boring
so seven found the door
They left amidst the snoring
leaving only 84

The nun looked to the altar
and the scary hanging Jew
Twice 11 faltered
and that left 62

But the preacher kept on talking
and he didn't skip a line
Then 13 more were walking
leaving only 49

The nun began to worry
as she saw the empty pews
They were leaving in a hurry
by sixes, fours, and twos

A dozen minutes later
they were in the church alone
The ****** masterbater
and his faithful penguin drone

"So what are we supposed to do?"
the preacher asked the nun
They started out with 92
(or was it 91?)

To be honest it was 93
including priest and nun
You'd think that I would know this
as I wrote it in line 1

But the time is getting very late
perhaps I now can sleep
These lines are not so very great
and not so very deep

But they served my shallow purpose
as my eyes begin to close
And since nothing rhymes with purpose
I believe it's time to go

A lack of presence
left the blind poet saltier than Scrooge.
He drowns in ink
clutching the hand of his past.
Transparent with an iron grip
he'll never let go.

The grip of the pen
finally has him feeling life between his legs.
Straddling his fears
being on top makes him feel complete.
Atop Mt. Olympus
the high feels more noble opposing the mere mortals.

Romanticism is the seed he sows into the ground.
Sprouting a tree tall
that none can climb.
He looks out his window
marveling at his roots.

The poor fool will never learn.
Through this frame
he is destined to brood.
Alone
he will fantasize his next epic.
Rather creating it.

Got a message from my half
Mrs. Hypochondriac
Moody right, moody right
Tell your CC
Let everyone know
Beatnik ****, beatnik ****
Listen to that beaten sound
Keeps me running, keeps the engines hummin'
Listen to that beating sound
Tic Tac Tic Tac
Got a lookout for King Me
Watch your Q's and watch your P's
Dot your eyes and cross your tease
You're gonna see what you still won't believe
Birth your rumors of immortality
Pound them 'til I can't help but agree
But when the truth slays the light
Don't blame me
King Me King Me King Me King Me
I'm the King, I'm the King, I'm the King, I'm the King
Keep your filthy black stained hands off of my crown
Take up your own bleeding cross and ride it to town
I'm the King
Too good for my own good and don't give a fu ck
Hatching plans to freak out the Man
Got a meanness in me that I don't understand
A lie for a dollar, a life for a dime
There's a well, a deep, deep well I fell
Into once
Where in the tumbling I found
The true hidden meaning of falling down
The treasure at the bottom wasn't worth the minute
It took to get there
King Mad, King Mad, King Mad, King Mad
These songs for a King
King You and King Me
King Kong's a Ding ****
Monkey Tales
Banana on a stick
Dipped in black chocolate
Rancid and arcane
Read in, read in
The main character wears a black tunic
His queen is the one with the brain
Better half, better half she tells him
It's best you stay quiet you'll give it away
You've done enough damage for one other day
What's done is done
Nothing but another bridge to burn
Another corner to turn
She says
You understand it less than I
And your understanding is void and dry
Quiet now, my loveless love
My misunderstood drug
My salt melted slug
Quiet now, before people believe
In the nonsense you write, the ******* they read

I could not read the music
And so I stood bewildered in the concert hall.
And I do not know why my fiddle mourns a sadly lament.

My guitar sings out danciful tunes
And my banjo beckons all to rejoice.
My mandolin calls with the air of easiness
And my tin whistle whispers with an angel's voice.

But my fiddle,
My poor, lonesome fiddle.
It is full of minor keys
And wrong notes.
Painful melodies
And sorrowful tones.