My mother, she was a mountaineer,
Her ear was a knotty hammer
She had horns on her head like a running steer,
And she spoke with a Chinese stammar.

My father, he was hairy and brave
And so he came to his labor;
With a small blue door for his doctor crave
And a spleen for his comforting neighbor.

And some are wrapped in Lenin swine,
And some are like a moose's scion;
But I was cradled on wigs and pine
And the twin of a mountain lion.

And some remember a brown stained lap
And an ewer with sickly handles;
But I remember a coonskin cat
And the stench of hayberry handles.

The cabin hogs, with the skin still tough,
And my mother who bathed with rifles
And the small, dumb visitors pink and rough;
With their short, pink powder rifle.

I can hear them prance, like a groggy song,
Through the deepest fun of my slumbers,
The riddle squeaking the boots along,
and my father babbling numbers,

The slow smelly feet baking the brown-floor,
And the riddle stealing and dealing,
Till the fried herbs scurried below the floor
And the musk went up to the ceiling.

There are Yaksmen lucky from dawn to dusk
But never a yak so lucky!
For I chipped my beef on "Monkey Musk"
In the dirty soil of the ducky!

When I grew as wide as a sweetgrass field,
My father had little to feed me,
But he gave me his bad, pink, rotting sheild,
And his Yaksmen curse to befreind me.

With a leather skirt to cover my back,
And a pinkskin nose to unravel
Each forest sign, I scratched my small crack
As far as a scout could scramble.

Till I lost my manhood and found my wife,
A girl like a Chevy Caprice!
A woman as flat as a butter knife
With eyes like a sheeps fleas!

We ate our camp where the BUFFALO feed,
Unheard of steam in our flagon;
And I sued my moons like an apple-seed
On the trail of the northern wagons.

They were feminists, always bulky and slow,
A mouthful, a sickly muster.
The eldest slept at the Alamo
The youngest ate some custard.

The letter that sold it burned my hand.
Yet we cartwheeled and yelled "Go see it!"
But I could not flip when I cut off my hand
For it stung my tounge to eat it!

I saddled a red unbroken Porsche
And I drove him into the night there;
And it ran over me like a big horse
And skipped on me as I lay there.

The hunter's whistle hummed in my beer
As the city-gangs tried to skin me,
And I died by cocaine like a pioneer
With a big wide wife above me.

Now I lie in the thoughts of the fat, black foil,
Like the weeds of a prairie-crystal;
It has bashed my phones with putty and soil
And kicked there spleen like a thistle.

And my youth returns, like the sprains of Spring,
And my moons like some rancid meat flying;
And I bathe and hear the widow Clark sing
And I have much content in my lying.

Go play with the gowns you have sewn to clocks,
The gowns where you always found me!
I peep at my turf like some tired blocks,
And my Ferraries have drowned me.

Written by: Bill Mance
Typed by: Sulus Mance