O Lord make me a Gentile
With hard-working hands
Skinny little legs
And a hard round belly
When you got a tool like mine,
You gotta build a shed over it.

Bud Lights in Sturgis
Daytona Beach
I wanna get thrown out of Dollywood, Lord

Bandanas
Oooh, lemme at them bandanas, but
Not like David Foster Wallace
The opposite of David Foster Wallace
And not a do-rag, neither
Obviously not a do-rag
You know: a bandana
Stars and bars’d be just peachy
Or Old Glory
Something patriotic, Lord.

I wanna call every man I meet Brother.

Molly Hatchet’s playing down the fairgrounds tonight
My cousin’s working security
We gonna have ourselves a time.

The bad guys always whisper
“It is more intimate with a blade”
Listen to villains.

I was naked for the act
I was naked when you died
I softened you up
With water
And potions
Ordered off the internet

You put up a fight
Good for you, slugger
Rome fell, too
We all fuck off in the end
The press will call it a mercy killing
We can get the public on our side

It was like that shot from Psycho
You swirled goodbye
Clean-shaven face to match my heart

If last year was rough, may this one be easy.
If it was easy, may this one be smooth.
If it was smooth, don’t fuck up a good thing.

Mistuh is dead now
Fine man he was
Tall
And always smiling
I still have the dime
That he gave me
After Boogie died
He plucked it from the handful
Of change
In the palm of his glove
Never seen such shiny coins.

When a man eats
–I’m talking about most men, now–
You can tell by his shirtfront;
Not Mistuh
He had the cleanest face in the county.

Mistuh didn’t have the stomach
For violence.

Shame what’s become of this world
Now that men like him ain’t in it.

Twas the night before Midterms
And all through the town
Not a citizen smiled
Everyone wore a frown

The flyers and pamphlets
Had been sent by mail
And robocalls flurried
As if they were hail

The bunting and banners
Were red, white, and blue
But it seems this year
The S of A wasn’t so U.

The houses were full
With fights and with bickers
And everyone eyed
E’ryone else’s bumper stickers

When out in the street
There arose a great clamor
That men shut their yaps
Ladies ceased with their yammer

It was him, it was Santa!
There could be no one finer!
Everyone’s favorite saint
From 8th century Asia Minor!

A crowd gathered round
And grew into a group
Santa just smiled
And Prancer made poop

A very tall man
With only one ear
Said “It’s November, Claus,
Why you are here?”

And then Santa laughed
His traditional HO
And his belly did jiggle
And his eyes did a-glow

“Even up in the North Pole
I can’t help but hear it
You all are in need
Of some Christmas-time spirit.

“Some good will towards men
And some alms for the poor
And a hearty reminder
Of what life is for!”

The crowd heard his words
And they processed their meaning
And then, all at once,
Everyone started screaming.

“What kind of name’s ‘Santa?’
Are you here legally?”
Yelled a man in a red hat
Who looked kinda weaselly.

“These reindeer, Santa,
Were they bred or rescues?”
“Santa, I have some concerning
Facts about Jews.”

The crowd got excited
Like a riot begun
And then a white lady
She called 911.

So the police arrived
To protect and serve cit’zens
And one cop shot Donner
And another shot Blitzen

“Fuck this,” said Kris Kringle
And he spurred on his ‘deer
“To the North Pole or Poland
Anywhere but right here!”

And his voice carried out
As he sped away home
“Maybe Jesus’ll help you;
You’re on your own.”