Beaten With a Freudian Switch
I’ve been beaten with a Freudian switch.
Ground into the dirt by a grindstone that cannot be worried.
Spoke too much and wore out the ears, now there’s nothing left but genital jelly and hormone replacement therapy.
What you see is what you get: A cat doing callisthenics with a bubble bath helmet.
“Capricorn phallus” — a band name for the masses, cause we all know goats have big horns.
Born again like a treasure department.
Cut back my locks of midnight lust.
Bent head, dowsed in petrol near a burning bush, captivate the audience with a car park travel guide.
There are good things in all things, even plastic would tell you so if it could talk.
I paraded for the doormat squad and set my mind at ease by tranquilizing the rest of the world.