an ode to jerome wolf.

our man sits quietly in the upstairs bath tub,
filled to the brim, all lukewarm,
puffing away on his stolen hashpipe, and look,
there's a fly on his dicktip,
he's thinking of the working girls of the delta,
and he watches silently as the fly traverses
its fleshy foreign territory,
being a professional killer, he's left with no other option...

down periscope!

slowly at first, so the survivor of an animal
doesn't know what's happening,
quick, quicker, quickly now into the filthy depths,
his thin lips grasping that pipe,
watching that insect scramble maniacally,
it doesn't make the logical choice,
a billion years of instinct ignored,
no way! it just sorta hangs on, just kinda stays there,
legs soaked, wings coated in dead skin and soap bubbles,
didn't see this coming, you fuck!

jerry springs out of the bathtub, satisfied with the setup,
watches the poor bastard slide down the drain in a rush,
you might have seen a smile on those wrinkled lips,
were you there, that is.

30 years in the same fucked up game,
and lord knows how he managed to pull it off,
blew a guy to pieces with a 105mm gun
in khe sanh on christmas one year,
there's hope for you yet you tank jockey,
put our tax pounds to good use,
trounce all that you see and hear,
and if it runs, it's VC!

three cheers for the pink mist!
hip-hip, boom!
hip-hip, ratatatat!
hip-hip, what's that smell?