197

My daddy’s in the movie. Section 45.
He’s got to figure out a way to put Marilyn behind the yellow curtain,
sleepless, weepless as he keeps on banging his head upon the screen.
He didn’t mean to me rude,
he didn’t mean to be nude in front of all the pretty girls.
He did a masochistic twist with a razor,
played a little song for the duck taped girl.
A simple operation, practically impossible to blow.
There are 197 numbers on the table, sketches, a ticket to the show.
She’s a 24 Madonna, a voluptuous girl, a ballerina Suprema.
She’s the German at the back of the commercial delay.
I called the manager. Monkey see monkey do, for the Monday show!
A body on detention, all the boys are peppering the kid,
Mister Epileptic only 17 this summer, blue in the eyes, blue in the face
and the testicles breaking on the bench.
Hey, don’t you worry too much.
I am the doctor with the beautiful touch.
I’m only here to make you fell a little better today,
a little better in the usual way,
so don’t you cry, I’ll fix you up
and put a smile on you face,
put you together, read the medical news
that you never had the chance to understand on your own.
It’s so easy to throw away everything else when you’re all alone
She tasted good like gingerous pie, but then the old man forced me to cry.
She drank me up two bottles of bliss and when she stopped she gave me a kiss
I want to have a piece of you trust, wrap it up in your teenage lust.
Take a ride with Citizen Kane until the world is going insane.