I lie a lot, I shit in a pot,
I cry when I have piss to dry.
I puke faced with incendiary rebuke,
Usually my fish takes time to fry.
Holy and horny cow, I must fuck somehow,
My semen is drying on the flap.
Stern machinations in soft situations,
Usually when I show my butt gap.
But overall one ball, is very small,
The other is grotesquely big.
This happened when in Calcutta,
I was trying to become a pig.
Of course all men are pigs,
And of course you must be right.
But I do look like one, at least partly,
Qualified for a shriek of fright at night.
Well but looks can't be everything,
If you have wealth and health.
And here again, I have none,
I live alone, hidden away in stealth.
Fornication, at least a fortnight,
Or is it more? Was it with my hand?
If I score on a miss, I want to piss,
To signify ownership of her land.
Not really very good, the food,
After shit I furiously fret.
I love to eat, sometimes overeat,
At night my bed always sweat wet.
Heart attack a must, what's left is a crust,
A crusty old man vain, carrying pain.
My habits porcine, use French perfumes fine,
I don't consider a hooker's bath is vain.
I let shit dry on my hole, my soul,
Is pure as pure can be.
If I should die, I leave no shit to dry,
Pucker my hole and I'm free.
