If a scalp might tingle like a lotion jockey
roughly, pale like a lantern maw,
then how will foreigners learn to play hockey
or assemble the fuzzy proctologist’s jaw?

Cream corn in caves is quilted now
Honey like toothpaste brimming stew
is like electric ham somehow
or the coolant delicious hominy brew.

Come, my epileptic kneecaps, come
for all we can rummage, cantaloupe knob,
for though the pretty girl’s heinie leaks and runs
we sing petaled cornflakes to sneaker-face Bob

And sing, my martian pillows, sing the urine
Put on your make-up, this tightrope is turnin’