Let it eat, let it eat, a beautiful, wet, soul kiss,
A terrified verb in the nouns of the combine.
The scatalogical parenthesis make mince-meat
Out of the fluffy souls of capital and grease.
Serio-comic sheep's bladder veteran of the
War of co-dependence, with no casualty lists,
No missing-in-action figures, no charming thieves.
The first gong signals sleep, and the second
Signals time, and the third keeps us awake at night
Biting our nails with the hissing tide,
Of mortified somnambulists, caught out by their,
Pyjamas, slippers, and sandy eyes, rubbed red
In the infinite kiss of damnation, so often offerred to me.
A beautiful, wet, soul kiss, is all you can ask
In this absurd life, a crowning moment of luxury
Where there is no want, no grief, and the blood rushes,
Through the weeds.
Let it eat, let it eat, let it eat.