4 and 21 crows
None go south
For the supper when a punk goes out
Checkerboard of mothballed death-forms
Hauled via vaudeville canes
And encased where the claw marks wane off broadway the god way
Watch, our father
Commuters from the farms with news of el chupacabra
Who transfuse soup out a fresh punk skull
Dumb full blood suckers
Only the chum suffers
Pine box butcher
Encouraging poor lighting
Said “a pall bore not a sure sign ofjarred lightning"Harsh, that's how the yellow spine-diner was bornFeral feeding that strung his organs up like tire swing artChippin' a drippy set of broke bone grindersMore for the hive mindLess for the land mine findersFine, no defacto leaders in the eateryUnless you count the way they led his heart through his tuxedo teeStraight out the front4 and 22Cue the cut throat mouthChew together when a punk goes outEtiquette of tart-tongued ghoulsNever run truck jewelsRun a culinary school for gluttony-drunk wolvesIn guttural gruntsSmothering buttery lung ramenEarly sign of punk showed up on the diagnosticHm, pardon if I seem stand all the see-sawed loss, I can't call itAll petite drawn straws and orange cautionOr outcast creeps re-involved for absolvementIt's gaudy, plus when a hell-bound offspring and yours share an all evolve saltyWatch, if fortune is a bitch with venom and laser titsMaybe sin ‘ll make for sugar-flavored fleshKings taste terrible at best and rest in peace rawThe rest are recipesCaw!