Every night in my beans
I hear you, I smell you,
That how I knows you is gone
Far from resistance
And plates of beans for us
You done come to show you goes on
Near, close, or preferrably far
I believe that the fart does go on
Once more out through that open door
And you're hearing a carp
And my fart will go on and on
Mob mentality can touch us one time
And last for the three hours we sit bored in the theater
And never let go till we've won
Love was when I loved you, for love, as love is love, and love, love
One time I ate poop
In my imagination you're always gone
Very far, wherever you are
I hope you stay there
Once more you open the door, and, surprise, its the Canadian Royal Mounties looking for their money in return for not beating you to death for the third week in a row
And you're smelling my fart
And your heart will go on and on, as you lie gasping out your last breaths and look unbelieving at the gaping hole in your chest from which it was torn
You're here, there's nothing I fear, (excluding Mr. T, Crack/Cocain, Nixon, and the number four)
And I know that my heart will go on, because when I'm on drugs nothing can stop me
We'll stay forever this way (stupid)
You are safe in my speargun closet
And my fart will go on and on and on and on, we cry out for it to stop, but still it mercilessly goes on and on like some possessed unceasing machine, until in a last desperate gasp of sanity we disembowel ourselves and lie bleeding on the sidewalk, thankful that it will soon stop going on and on and on . . .
(Not James Horner, Not Will Jennings; Not Performed by Celine Dion)

Or go home