Another missing number in the jungle
Turned up with nothing but a loin cloth to protect your tender Penis from
what’s danger and the wildlife your human nose
Making the least of all scent going dumb
To the dynamics of clean air bare feets
Cringing across the unkempt forest floor
Minutes ago you’d been licking brass knuckles
And soaking up satellite feed beneath
Beating flash bulb blare
Being crowned this year’s champion king
Looking good bad after a beautiful thing
Big winner of the only and annual
Serious serious guts competition
Sponsored in part by the pain reliever people
And the heads of music television
Yes you and ten other tough guys slit smiles
Across your then perfectly sturdy stomachs
And spread your large intestines boldly
Out across a coated white poker table
The starter pistol barked and each contestant commenced to Carefully comb their own eager entrails from behind
The one-way wall of mirrored eyewear
Everyone a hopeful breathing heavy
Sifting through their mortal coil with their finger tips
For the most intimidating
Lengths of well sculpted and primetime stomach links
Every so often in the name of health an executioner
Capped usher struts about the gut covered table
Misting everyone’s exposed and heaving organs
With a modified and fancy water pistol
All in the all in the name of health
As always this years celebrity judges
Are only of the most incredible persuasion
Charles Bronson’s angry and gay only daughter
Ice Cube back from when he was hard
And a framed 8×10 of Joe Namath’s kneecaps
And because you won they stitch up your open abdomen first
Gave you a nice rambo knife and some choice cigarettes
Then cut you loose in the Ozarks
The question being not if but when
You will kill for your next meal
And besides after all you’d never gone missing before
(Never gone missing before)
And besides after all you’d never gone missing before
(Never gone missing before)
And besides after all you’d never gone missing before
(Never gone missing before)
And besides after all you’d never gone missing before
(Never gone missing before)
Pop master
(Drop the guts)
Pop master
(Drop the guts)
Pop master
(Drop the guts)
In one months time they anticipate your turning up On the lap of the Lincoln memorial
Wearing the stripped and cured
Flesh of yet another white rapper
Lovers and mothers the last thing on your mind
Raw and reborn in the kill
As the red carpet goes wild
The vice magazine people serving up A hard bucket of most happening blood
Feeding a spit roast pig in your honor
Kissing the wind
Calling you boss
Phantom hearts clinking half empty
In the leftover and once humored
Still
Still arrogant air