Sometimes it's very hairy in here, sometimes I wear a hat,
sometimes my forehead will appear; betimes I think it has.
There's a snake lining down my mirror,
Smelly gas disturbs my pace
and though the smell is strong and gross
It can reach the pretty corners of this place.
There's a stinky, smelly, sock-shaped castle in the clouds;
I draw the turkey's meanings there.
But seven years and only one buck is around the corner
and in my nostrils lurks spectre of a hair.
Tacky scissors amidst the drapes of the landing;
Slit wrists, don't get to understand it. . .
I'm only trying to find a place for my garden gnome.
I’ve lived in houses composed of basses
where all the waters are charted
but now watchman, he screams and barks
and I fear that I’m in a violent hell.
My words are basses inside the pee
they swim through faith, hope and reason -
but iron slowly rusts to dust
gathering around my hair.
Sometimes I get the feeling
that there’s someone elsewhere:
the brainless watchman wakes me uneasily;
his voice annoys me,
and his presence is creepy.
He informs me I should get out of my bed.
What’s a bed, butt out of and into! (teehee)
I don’t know the nurture of the walls I walk in to,
I don’t know the nurture of the nature
that I am inside. . .
I’ve lived in houses composed of dicks
where all devotion is sacred
and if you wan’t the passion of a fruit
you must first sniff at its fragrance
and lay your body before the shrine
with poo and soft-porn and tissues
or, if you’ve got the guts, you’ll have to choose
to stay, a boy, or leave, a man.
What is this place for my garden gnome?
Is it a salmon with no profession?
Is it the chant that you yell to get attention?
Is it really only somewhere you can play?
Is it a booklet or a novel?
Is it the beating of the butt of your inspector?
Does the idle man eat or decay?
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