Grandfather burned up to ash 
And returned to the earth.
Which he spawned
This nefarious prank
That’s controlled by the length 
Of his arms.
And the kindred is gathered 
By coffin and chaplain,
On his behalf.
And a discreet tender man
Clears his throat, 
Waves his hand,
Following a laugh.
And the band plays on.

Like a fat baby’s birth,
Like a cry and a curse 
At the breathing space,
While the mother rejoices
Ten fingers, ten toes 
And a handsome face.
And the family is gasping.
Each one can’t help asking,
“How was it, my dear?”
Like a scorn for the one
That was torn and deformed
For the next [bad word] years.
And the band plays on.

So I’ll cut you all open.
I'll see what’s inside you
Or what’s missing.
While this virgin,
Your daughter, 
Skirt down in the altar-
She don’t owe you a God [bad word] thing,
'Cause she’s gorgeous.
I’ll take her to 
The house by the lake,
Where I'll write her a song.
While you fat pigs with call-girls:
They dance in the ballrooms 
Shaking their wallets at God.
And the notes fill the pages
As I scramble to paste up 
My bleeding heart.
And this sick song moves on,
If you’re lucky lifelong,
You can sing a part.
As it falls apart.