The sheep who adore me
scrape and peel at my lyrics
so I shred some gibberish into a song.
“What does he mean ‘I am the Walrus’?” they ask.

One woman bleats so loud
she doesn’t notice that I’m
politely calling her a “******* pig.”

When I begin wearing
my repulsive glasses,
I see a pair on every face.
Can’t they afford minds of their own?

“They’re gonna crucify me,” I predict.
Then I tempt fate once more saying “shoot me,”
and one man does.