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.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
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.
October 28, 1999
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