Millennium  v11p47

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C4B2-b

My problems -- I guess I have gang mentality --
merit some missiles: one masturbates the audience, the other
masturbates in front of the audience --
aren't folkies terminal?... they're not
handicapaped, they can write their own fucking checks:
quell-o-matic circumcised chorizo:
well, gate me out! -- corporate christ's
lip-service catered junta putting
the dead body of Marice Bishop into
the zippered futon cover you don't after all want
socialists coming on to you --
Interviewer: Do you consider that you've had a good life?
Nixon: I don't get into that kind of crap:
I'm going to whip the scum off your teeth
turning my face into a condominium turns self
into headrest through surgery: shop it up your A-hole --
well, I didn't want to fuck the critics...
he doesn't do windows, yuppie tassles on his dick --
well, as soon as I fixed my nose, people began
stopping me in the street thinking I was Michael Jackson
discouraged by the drastic shortage of infant hearts

Cool America, boil the world, freedom fighters
in my nostrils so your face still
looks like a landmark restoration -- definitely
old people should get a drug
which may be marching to the beat
of a different clavé -- we donĒt like to tour --
already our #1 Character is gonna be a Zombie --
we like to tool; we're all fucked-up
nazis, here's a toot for last time, &
here's a toot for this time
use lysol to make your point --
don't junkies usually lag behind the beat a bit
cunniling' the landfill suck
my cunt-handicapped cock to entertain
the computers by dyeing our nipples:
you can really control the squirt on this! --
no, I don't need Anusol, I've got hemmerhoids
which sitting on your face all day is tough on --
can't fake those testicles in the mouth...
had to have women singers havin' a shredding par-tee

Hi, I'm your 97 year old communist neighbor
playing second fiddle to an enema bag --
I want the President up my butt: if you tried
to light a firecracker in the asshold
it'd fizzle out from lack of oxygen --
life is strictly for dieters, the dork I didn't
recognize you without, I sold my toy firetrick for
a five dollar bag jerking off on
the captured P.L.O. weapons: this time
we write, next time we bomb -- vaporize me some aliens, hon':
have more children & then kill them