Shambling down the roadside Cheering as he goes A manic, flailing cretin In filthy, tattered clothes Dead things are his playmates He takes them in his care Clutching limbs and tails He whips roadkill through the air
He uses them in puppet shows Hung around his shack Stuffs his backpack full of fur Some bloody—most are flat Tied onto his belt of rope A skirt of sunbaked stink Running out of furry friends He strokes their pelts and thinks
Setting makeshift traps He titters and he claps Birdies, fish, and rats Are crammed in burlap sacks
He drags the critters to the street Waits for cars to pass Then throws them at the tire wells It kills them very fast Sometimes lucky animals Scurry past unharmed Cretin screams and gives up chase But catching them is hard
Drags them from their dens Yanks them from their pens They bite his scabby hand He tosses them again
One day running after prey A stormy winter day An orange van hits the man And breaks both of his legs He drags himself back to his fort Despite the biting pain And wraps himself in animals Roadkill that he madeTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
