Monday, May 27, 2002
Swizzle-stick me in a jar,
mastodons in foreign cars.
Oh what lovely
buggering bubbly
sex shows on starships tonight!

Chew up those rancid tulips
like I know you want to, Stone Phillips.
Belching out butterflies,
watching them flutter by,
gastric delights hued in blue.

Don’t be so dumb,
dressed up and down in that bubblegum.
Don’t you know you’re the queen?
Practical jokes are so mean.
My lady you drink like a whore.

Rubber wigs are low-fuss.
Parsley sprigs condemn us.
Slap on that wig
and shit out a fig,
see if they won’t now get us a table!

Stone Phillips, the queen and me,
dancing on MTV.
Dining on the finest
low-calorie vaginas
this posh restaurant can provide us.

Laughing whenever we see
the bluebirds of jealousy.
Asking a Yeti
with a ceramic machete
to kindly pass the spicy mustards.

The creature, a teacher, a pig and the pope
sang a song all about their plans to elope.
And with a loud blast
the ballroom was gassed
(and though it was passed)
I don’t think that was spicy mustard.

Drink a Toast to the Liver
Consider once the lonely liver, liver of a life deemed lower, by those organs hip and trendy, who might be smaller or more bendy.

The Rickles
The Rickles like tickles and pickles and pee. The Zicklers are sticklers for conformity. The Mounces eat rayguns, the Olaffs smoke brie. Where did they all come from? Beats the crap out of me.

Midnight Snack
All the summer dumplings want to eat me alive, I get a hostile greeting even before I arrive! Oh me oh my, I’ve pissed off the pie! What an unfortunate fate! Why’d I have to delve into the custard so late?