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Another missing number in the jungle |
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turned up with nothing but a loin cloth |
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to protect your tender penis from what's danger and the wildlife |
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Your human nose making the least of all scent |
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Going dumb to the dynamics of clean air, |
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bare feets cringing across the unkept forest floor |
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Not ten minutes ago, you had been licking brass knuckles and soaking up satelite feed |
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beneath beating flash bulb blare, being crowned this year's champi'o'king |
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Looking good bad after a beautiful thing |
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Big winner of the only and annual |
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Serious Serious Guts Competition |
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(sponsored in part by the pain reliever people and the heads of music television) |
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Yes, you and ten other tough guys slit smiles across your then perfectly sturdy stomachs, |
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and spread your large intestines boldly out across a coated white poker table |
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The starter pistol barked, and each contestant commenced to carefully comb |
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their own eager entrails from behind the one-way wall of mirrored eyewear |
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Everyone a hopeful breathing heavy |
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sifting through their mortal coil with their finger tips, |
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for the most intimidating lengths of well sculpted and primetime stomach links |
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Every so often, in the name of health, |
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an executioner capped usher struts about the gut covered table |
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misting everyone's exposed and heaving organs |
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with a modified and fancy water pistol |
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In all the... all in the name of health |
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As always, this years celebrity judges are only of the most incredible persuasion |
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Charles Bronson's angry and gay only daughter, icecubed back from when he was hard |
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and a framed 8x10 of Joe Namath's kneecaps |
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And because you won, they stitched up your open abdomen first |
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Gave you a nice rambo knife and some choice cigarettes |
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And cut you loose in the ozarks |
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The question being not if, but when, you will kill for your next meal |
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And besides after all you'd never gone missing before (never gone missing before) (x4) |
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Gone master. Drop the guts! (x3) |
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In one months time, they anticipate your turning up |
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in the lap of the Lincoln memorial |
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wearing the stripped and cured flesh of yet another white rapper |
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Lovers and mothers the last thing on your mind, |
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raw and reborn in the kill |
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As the red carpet goes wild |
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The vice magazine people serving up |
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a hard bucket of most happening blood |
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feeding a spit roast pig in your honor, |
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kissing the wind, calling you boss |
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Phantom hearts clinking half empty |
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in the leftover and once humored |
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still... still arrogant air |
