John Barleycorn under spell of the damned Net;
Goons enthralled on millennium tech
Before we’re jacked on a meltdown fence.
They say there’s 1 in the con
War melon rap sung target in cawn
Bumbie run free, sights focus dat fawn.
Who covets the mythic X-file;
Blonde hair bloody on fuschia tile,
Glazes shadowed, shattered ceramic,
Dali’s yawd-chilllrun fucked-up manic
Jon Bawley embraced cranked-out sets
Flying saucers, Seti, warm-wired wet;
Psychic cones from Egyptians, rising from rushes,
Clintons and Carville, dissing the Bushes.
I knew an acid casuality
Thought he was an orange
If anyone touched him you see,
He’d become orange juice.
I see a dark mahn screamin’ in the cron
I hear a Shogun kung-fuing a fawn
I smell whiskey on a redneck’s dongs,
M-16 raps a wallow-melon song