Let's see if I can come up with something from Scratch,
a shake-and-bake pajama dance, a jubilee
that celebrates all the saints that wear an eye patch,
all the slavers who slave and thereby set men free
of worry, of jibing the chords without jangling
the high-strung paeans to dive-jive infantility.
I can't speak for you, but I'm tired of the wrangling
of wild horse words, of droll jaded senility.
A magic bullet splattered America's dream.
If you see my little red rooster send him home,
and they did, co*k of the walk, early mourning scream,
they sent him, Satan, on an SST from Rome.
I'm not a religious guy, but I know there's evil
afoot, that it abounds, and brings dark upheaval.
