Scrambled Eggs

Got my Rolling Stone today       It said California’s spent         They’re so decadent               And they were right               I didn’t even know what it meant

So I looked it up in my Websters                           It was so absurd                  I couldn’t even find the word     So I spent the day writing poems about my life               But that’s OK cause in New York you’d beat your wife

My brain is made of scrambled eggs, my body looks like squished-up worms, my hair is slimy guts of pigs, my legs are sticks of skinny sperms, my arms are bones of little turds, my fingers look like beef jerky, my dream is to be a person who doesn’t smell like a bad shit

Found my head yesterday         I’d really like to thank the Stone                                For showing me my head’s a bone Found it easy when I dug up my backyard                            Found a punk band too and boy! those heads were hard           Sent them back to New York    With a get-well card