and they ain't appearing no where
and so every redneck
with a guitar will do just fine
by me, seeing as how I've got
nothing to feel good or bad
about and not even a chance
or hope for salvation, just more
dead rabbits and unmended fences
and bridges that can't be built
without the help of seasoned,
alien workers, and scabs and scabs
and scabs on all of them and on
me and on you, I'm guessing. What
else is there in this universe but
a disco ball of doom and a DJ
who won't play the song you
want, but won't quit playing
all the other songs? That DJ is
called DJ GOD MUTHA FUCKA
and he can rock your shit for
a while, but, eventually, he's
going to leave you and you're
not going to get a chance to
say goodbye and, when you
get home, that night, you're gonna
cry cry cry because you're
his silly little bitch.
