Is there a navel reserve below your pectoral fins?
Your voracious palm frond’s in the way—
Studs are added to your collar bone from the organs below the belt.
The church pipes smoking in the distance put the organ to shame:
You can give that old field a corncob lift.
A grain elevator on the horizon of grassy goodness.
The law’s taken over every last storefront and public toilet.
Man can’t get a good sheet of country plastic no more,
No covering for his tender behind
With all the gumshoes sticking it up all over the place.
We ought to be able to buy statehood from those woodsmen in Congress in no time.
What say you to our own place in the heart of the Chamber?
If I were a dummy I might think you was a ventriculist.
The blueprints for the new dome are sky high.