The Bacon for Tomorrow's Breakfast

Lend an ear, pretty child
Who counts birdshot in a dead man's chest
You don't wanna hear about napalm, you just wanna rock
Circus magazine says that you're writing a song that you're gonna dedicate to the Panthers
Wake up before the whole fucking world goes into the atomic sewer
And you two have a very abstract thing going here
I'll flash my cock if you'll burn your draft card
Worn out, harsh, run out
Hands reaching in the air, grabbing at everything
A lot of guys with boners
A lot of girls in heat
Everybody angry, crying, hard up
Boners against blue jeans
I look for rainbows and all I see is pig blue
Look for flowers, I see crap all over the oval loom rug
I look for father figures and I get Richard Milhouse Nixon and Spiro Agnew
I look for love and all I get is napalm
The lady is a poet
The mystics could tell us; the gurus; the medicine men
They feel we're in the 15th round; the ninth inning
In the capitals of the world, men who can no longer get their peckers up have found a new way to get turned on
They're the butchers of the world with their 18-pound sledgehammers
The bacon for tomorrow's breakfast will have the peculiar color of ash
I could snuff him with a pillow
No, he must go the way he's expected to go
Look, I've got a blade, I could open up a lung
That's right, he's gotta choke on it
If you look in the back there, you'll see I don't have a rug on the floor, I got linoleum
That's for puke from people like you
Rock and roll is dead