We careen through the confetti
and graffiti of our lives like Attila
and his warriors with ever sharper knives.
We confess our sins like flatulence
and then we sin again like recyclic
drunks and addicts who pretend
that nothing really matters except
bellies, cocks and cunts: we always fill
the former and the latter pair are stunts;
if you want to get in touch with us
you’ll wait around for months
’cause we’ll not wake up till then.
Glory, glory, shoot your mouth off
in your head; glory, glory, spend the
rest of your life in bed; glory, glory,
stuff your face-hole until you’re
fed. You can pillage the Earth
and rape the sky: who cares, if
you end up dead? (Repeat.)
