Yo- sell the world hold the press tell the girl I like the diamond necklace so shell over the whole load the loaded pistol pressed against your gourd you can get gored so feel blessed, thank the Lord that your “thankers“ still thinking I say something your skull just think with a blink and a pull I could blank out and close the account in your Thinkbank, buddy, but with the bunny blushing baby blues, your lady is blinking at me mercy I must confess at first I was conversing She was converting from fully dressed to coming clean out of that dress; if more is less, more! More! Yes! Yes!! Who could guess you could get a woman out of her stockings with a word and that’s the word haven’t you heard? Sell The world hold the press, like hell is. The worst heaven is the best I can smell the success smells like the first, second’s “two” shitty, I don’t buy into the brands that they brandish hand-in-hand with the blend of bland “-ish” bands at the checkout stands check this out man I stand for the stranded and the stranger- like Stanford, academic, a stamp all others stick to or stack up their star samples it’s simple just like popping a pimple. It’s all white and black heads rockin’ ’ so let’s get it poppin’ , it’s all inside, it’s all right it’s all write, it’s all written in the wisdom of Will and I will be the bill in that billfold that your Old lady holds when I told her hand it over- it’s all a cover. I am a lover. I am all over. - I cram all this clover in your backyard where Rover is rolling over in his leash at least I’ve been released from the rope of regular beasts. I hope I beg I raised my leg and relieve my real feelings onto the rehearsed record for the record. I’m already bored. I’m all ready before the big reward because I’ve told you before and by now you can be sure fuck the rewards they remind me I’m cured my X is the X factor my reflex gets respect Read the receipts or the repeating round numbers right behind the 10 I see Tennessee, that’s the tune in your city that’s the moon to your sea, the tide to your surf, the Hyde to your Jekyll suicide to your skull, the same stinking thinking thing that I think linked us to this whole rigmarole mental moles, little lobotomy of a whole holy moly how do you like them hops for your hip to hook up and have a hoedown with, huh, kids? Hunka-hunka-and-ya-don’t quit, do ya? Huh-uh. That’s a hit. I (could just spit.) Spit. It’s all a big “S” -hit. (Seriously. They need to quit, though.)
