My Car Runs on Blood

My car runs on blood

I found out because

I murdered a girl

Named Angelica Fuzz.

I was driving my car

With the girl in the trunk

Not in the back seat

'Cause the corpse really stunk.

I drove out of town

To deposit the lass

In a lake, but then, damn it

I ran out of gas.

At first I freaked out

What bad luck was this?!

But then, just to try it,

I slit the girl's wrists.

The blood wriggled out

And I filled up the tank

Then I put back the girl

‘Cause my goodness, she stank!

I turned on the car

And I thought—will it drive?

When it did, I announced:

“I’m the best man alive!”

I drove to the lake

And the engine ran fine

I dropped off the corpse

And was home before nine.

But Angelica Fuzz

Soon turned into a ghost

Can you guess who’s the man

That she hated the most?

It was me! So she tried

To discredit my name

“He killed me!” she said

“He’s a man of ill-fame!

He bludgeoned me dead

With a horrible thud!

And what’s more, his Ferrari

Is powered by blood!”

For a moment I thought

That she’d ruined my life

Me, a hard-working man!

With two kids and a wife!

But they didn’t believe her

They said, “Sorry, bud.

You’re a liar. Ain’t no car

Can function on blood.”

So the ghost was denounced

As dishonest and brass

And now, before murders
I fill up on gas.

It's What's On The Inside That Counts

Inside my skin, I’m pretty sure

There’s nothing pretty or demure

My uterus, I must confess

Has never worn a cocktail dress

My large intestine doesn’t groom

My kidneys never wear perfume

There is no makeup on my spleen

And if you happen to have seen

My bladder, then you’ll be aware

It sports no curled and blow-dried hair

I'm not like that, I'm not that vain

I don’t put brain-rings on my brain

Nor do I ever take the pains

To put nail polish on my veins

My cervix has no fancy hat

There are no sparkles in my fat

My lymph nodes have no frills or bows

My lungs don't wear designer clothes

And my appendix owns no pair

Of heels or frilly underwear

I'm also pretty sure my heart

Does not look stylish, chic, or smart

I know we’re living in a world

Where all is painted, primped and curled

And I might hear a few ‘tut-tuts’

Because I don't adorn my guts

But let them gossip, let them scoff

I’m loud and proud; I’ll shrug it off!

I'll…what? You say it isn’t rare

For one to leave one’s insides bare?

My words will earn no social clout?

I’ve nothing to be proud about?

The fact is I’d be more unique

If all my guts were groomed and sleek?

Oh. In that case then I guess
I’d like a uterus cocktail dress.

Eight Simple Wife Instructions by Henry VIII

Behold her, bemuse her

Beguile her and bed her.

Begrudge her, beset her
Besmirch her, behead her.

Boo Hoo Beer

When I used to cry

I collected each tear

Added yeast, malt and hops

And brewed fresh Boo Hoo Beer

Then when I felt upset

No, I never did pout!

I just drank Boo Hoo Beer

Either lager or stout

And got drunk on past sadness

Poetic? Perhaps.

But it works just as well

To drink peppermint schnapps.

I Tried To Make Toast

I tried to make toast

I put in the bread

I thought it would brown

But it blackened instead.

I tasted the toast

It tasted like burnt

You said you were coming

It turns out you weren’t.

It turns out you left

Went to some other place

Did you, in your toast,

See another man’s face?

‘Cause now I’m alone

With machine-blackened toast

I think that I’ll send it

To you.

In the post.

Perspective is Everything, or: You're a Dumb Cow

A cow went out on a bright, sunny day

And performed an impeccable “Moo”

The goats all heard, and gave applause

The chickens acknowledged it too

“That was a simply perfect Moo!”

The lowly hens called out

“Yes! Moo again! It was so nice!”

The happy goats did shout

The flattered cow felt flushed and hot

He wasn’t often praised

In his mind, he was burger meat

Since that’s how he was raised

“C’mon, cow! Encore!” cried the goats

“Please give another Moo!”

And so the cow prepared his throat

And did what he could do

“Moo,” he said, but it was soft

As timid as a mouse

The hens could barely hear it

In their flimsy old henhouse

“That’s it?” they asked, “That’s all you got?

That wimpy little note?

What happened? Did you choke

Upon the cud within your throat?”

The bashful cow turned tail and fled

His muzzle burned with shame

Without a proper Moo

He felt he’d never be the same

So from then on he lived alone

And how his heart did ache

He didn’t even realize:

“Hey! At least I’m not a steak!”

Though he’d escaped, he never thought

“I’m free! I’m born anew!”

He only thought, “I wish I’d had

A more consistent Moo.”

Minor Adjustments

The ghoul is on the keyboard

It came out of the piano books after the bats and moths

I can't ask a ghoul to relocate
I’ll have to transpose down to C