The Earth a snot-rag for our crowd
to wipe our noses on and chuck
so long’s we always pray out loud
and never seem to give a fuck
about consequence to thems’ats later
they’re late, that their fault
should’a got here sooner
Praise the Lord, Oh! Praise the Lord!
Who made this fair and pristine world
for us to wipe our dripping snouts
and Lord help anyone who doubts
we’re right. We are creation’s crown
count profits up then split, go South.
Those bitter sickos, dirty mouths
don’t know a decent way of life
Th’earth’s a rag f’rus to blot
our spincters’ emanations, hot
and brown from poisons spewed
by money workin, jobs secured
(so it is good) though we’re all screwed,
think healthy breath and drink’s ensured.
Have no connection to those blues
about the way we come around
to what we’ve trashed, can’t just move on
a-westward. Cyclic, not linear, round.
Got it? (Who, US?) Earth’s smart-assed moron.
(Copyright: James T. Risdon 3/4/92)