I Wish I Was a Wicked Man

I wish I was a wicked man

I hate to be a saint

I wish I did the kind of things

That’d make your granny faint.

I wish I had an evil glare

An evil cackle, too

I’d glare and cackle just before

I stabbed and burgled you.

You’d say: “Who was that wicked man

With such a chilling stare?

I wonder what dark treasures

He stores up inside his lair.”

And you’d be right, I’d have a lair

With flapping bats and snakes

And eerie ghosts who’d give

The most heroic men the shakes.

The cops would try to find me

They'd recruit their smartest hound

But I’d be so sly and cunning

They could never track me down.

I’d be drowning puppies, cackling

MUAHAHA without restraint

And you can’t have that kind of wicked joy

If you’re a saint.

Futile

Snake tries to eat its own tail

Thought tries to think its own thought

Veil tries to veil its own veil

Knot tries to tie its own knot.

Dying to know your own mind?

Cage cannot make itself caught

‘Cause objects are different, specific, distinct

Except when All’s One, and they’re not.

I Like to Make Eggs for My Friend the Old Man

I like to make eggs

For my friend the old man

I crack them and beat them

He sits in his chair.

“Are you comfortable, friend?”

He nods and looks distant

His head has brown age spots

And tufts of gray hair.

He likes his eggs scrambled

And cooked ‘til they’re shriveled

He likes them so roasted

They stick to the pan.

He doesn’t have teeth

So he has to just gum them

He likes to say: “Gums

Can do all that teeth can.”

And I don’t like eggs

So I just watch him eating

The eggs make him sleepy

He sleeps in his chair.

I take out my fiddle

And play while he’s snoozing

Performing soft music

I wrote for the air.

At six it’s the sunset

And that always wakes him

Snaps out of his slumber

Sometimes in mid-snore.

“Sunsets,” he sighs

“Are the paint strokes of angels

I’d murder the fellow

Who said they’re a bore.”

And after the sunset

He has to get going

His cat needs its dinner

And needs to be pet.

I hand him his hat and say:

“See you tomorrow?”

He says with his gum-grin:

“Sure, sonny. You bet.”

The Useless Broom

No, no! I’m afraid

That you can’t use that broom

It’s an old haunted broom

That we found in a tomb

It won’t collect dust

It just scatters it more

And it makes screeching sounds

When it’s dragged ‘cross the floor

At night, when I’m sleeping

It stands by my bed

Sweeping nightmares of doom

To my dream-heavy head

When I wake in the morning

I’m desperate to clean

A clean house would assuage

The dark visions I’ve seen

But I can’t

‘Cause my broom is an agent of Death

So it’s best to stay in

And just snort some more meth.

Don’t Look A Gift Horse in Any of Its Orifices

Behold the zebra, it’s a horse

With white and blackish stripes, of course

It also has a stripey mane

I’ve stuffed its butt with pure cocaine

We’ll border cross without a hitch

Then me & zebra filthy rich.