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I heard you were
A freak

Oh

I'll freak
You out

The things that scare
Them other
Boys

I turn
Them
Inside out

Let them spots
Shine in those purple
Lights

Get our freaks on
I'm always
Right

So trust
Me when I look
You in the
Eyes and
Say

Chorus

You can't scare me
I was raised by circus clowns

You cry but I
Know how to turn
You upside
Down

I'll show you my
Freak show
If you show
Me yours

Trapeze artist
I can
Always get
You more

High
New song
*******, Mr.Stork,
for this short changeling, shopsoiled babe,
tho ' I did ***** a psychotic hobbit,
guess I'm partly to blame.

I'll see this burden thru, do a hatchet psych-job
- of that, Mr.Stork, sir, have no doubt.
I solemnly promise each latest boyf
inalienable right to kick 'n' clout.

And of course I'll do all I can myself
to browbeat anklebiter into angsty beta ****:
everyday I'll repeat that he doesn't match up
and all he was good for was bad luck.

Frogs and snails and puppydogtails
are what alpha males are made of.
And beta ***** are mummy's boys,
but alpha beta *****, epsilon omega poofs

are made of pure love. Who idealise
mum's love denied into panacea with desperation.
As if Tim Mouse in the nellie-carriage, belles recoil
from eau de pathos, anti-pheromonic incel perspiration.

O he'll turn the other cheek
to shield from Social Services one with the red hand mark.
Scratching at the shed door like he miaowed,
or locked out on the patio like he barked.

Puny pure love is wet lettuce Y-front chromosome
when gals froth their gussets over flash pants fascists.
Even Pavlov and De Sade having a stab at being *** dads
couldn't rear such a magnificent *******.

My sadsack lad'll be lonely till end of his days
- let's toast to that, Mr.Stork, 'ear, 'ave a drink!
You know you're kinda **** for a heron's cousin,
and that beak must be at least 10 inch...

Yeah, I know the beta brat's blahrin',
but miserable little **** might as well get used to it.
**** me, Storky, you saucy ciconiiform
(say, did you know 6 billion sherries have rendered Santa impotent?)

And tho' I wish you'd airdropped this Wednesday
child in China or County Cork,
I'll swear on the Bible that my new bloke, Nigel,
didn't bop my nancy boy a shiner in County Court,

coz having his Ma beat that beta meh into him means
he'll sing 'Beat me outta me', beaten at sixteen.Job done.  
Storks and vultures, hens and harpies: birds of a feather.
When he tells you to ******* too, Mr.Stork, rues birthdays, I've won.

And if some myopic dumpling on heat should plop a grandkid
by miracle of stork stones or broken home or drunken need,
so sadistic fleet of Stork & Sons Limited delivers
generational cycles of dissatisfaction guaranteed.

— The End —