I’m still on my John Prine-ish (if that isn’t heresy) binge. Let’s call this a music-less song rather than a poem.
I got a woodpecker in my pants
some mistake it for a fer-de-lance
it makes my legs sway to and fro
although both my feet flatly say no
I’m stuck with a pair of alligator arms
don’t worry, they’ll do ya no harm
And the eyes I own aren’t the same size
On the beauty way, I’ll win no prize
(Chorus) We have our bodies til death do us part
I think mine was assembled a la carte
My disks are each fully fragmented
still in place, yes, but slightly dented
biting into moon pies makes me giggle
when I get up, my thighs they wiggle
I need to minimize my gluteus max
ain’t all diets a personal sin-tax?
lost count adding up my multiple chins
Let’s call it a maximizing of all my skin
We have our bodies til death do us part
I think mine was assembled a la carte
My nose knows what’s fingerlickin’ good
food tasting should be my livelihood
Throughout my boyhood I just misunderstood
Not too many spark plugs under my hood
We have our bodies til death do us part
I think mine was assembled a la carte
You know my toes, they refuse to twinkle
when it come to snorin’ I’m Rip Van Winkle
my pecs been the victim of some kidnapping
I’m a piss poor candidate for chromosome mapping
The few muscles in me are the slow twitch kind
I’m disinclined to ever seek peace of mind
nobodys ever asked me to pee in a cup
cause my human algorithm has never added up
We have our bodies til death do us part
I think mine was assembled a la carte