The Swan Song of Alfred E. Neuman (Who Groped the Tarts, Was it the King of Farts?)
Abbandonate la speranza, voi tutti che entrate qui
Let us go then, you and I,
When the media spreads a Milky Way of lies
Unto a people euthanized upon a fable;
Let us go through certain cretin-haunted streets,
The muttering retreats
of horny nights in Florida hotels,
And fast-food restaurants like Taco Bell:
Streets that follow a questionable argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming tedium.
Before you slyly ask, "what is this?", let us go and do our business.
In dingy rooms the proletariat come and go, across old carpets where the fungi grow.
The sallow bum who rubbed on my car windowpanes, the sallow homeless who begged me through my windowframe,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, fishing for roachy morsels from the deep,
Let fall from flaccid fingers the filthy floccus that falls from dump fires, slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing it was a soft, warm October night, pissed once against the house and fell asleep.
Deep in debt, I told Marla Maples he was richer than me.
And indeed there will be time
For the Russian Mafia to sneak into The Street
To prepare a face to make a place where we can meet;
Time to murder on 5th Ave. and create
All the works and ways so grand, that seemed to drop New York into my plate.
Time for you, my lawyers, and time for me
To make a hundred versions and revisions
Of my tax documents so I can file scot-free.
Across red carpets the hoi polloi now come, not realizing I'm a worthless bum.
And indeed there will be crimes, there will be crimes!
They'll wonder "do I dare?" And "how does he dare?"
As I descend the escalator and the stair
With a toupee in the middle of my hair —
(They'll say "how his hair is growing thin!")
My big black coat, my pressed white collar pressing orange chin,
My necktie phat and red, and my American flag pin,
(They'll say, "but he's our guy and he's bound to win!")
To you I say, "Screw the Universe!"
In my announcement free-associating to the crowd,
There's time for visions, decisions and revisions
That will make it all infinitely worse.
I have known the boobs already, known them all,
Grabbed pussies in pageants and changing-room floors
And tits and ass and so much more!
Impresario, hustler, con man of the mall,
Who watched investments dying and survived them all;
I've perfected outright lying with tremendous balls
Beneath the music of a stolen tune,
"P.T. Barnum, I presume?"
I should have stayed with my old wrestling thing,
A loudmouthed promoter like Don King.
No! I am America's Prince Omelette, or was meant to be,
Made with eggs packed by immigrants for you and me;
(muchos huevos, senor!)
I can drone on like I'm bored, nothing to do,
While my army of chaos proceeds to screw
John Q Public, and that's nothing new,
All great leaders do it, very cool!
I just mumble BS in my bored voice to incite my crew,
I'm full of it, can't make sentences, but it's all a ruse;
The media thinks I'm just addled and obtuse,
But really they're all my willing tools (now who's the fool?)
Shall I scratch my fat behind? Tweet my fatuous new speech?
I shall wear silk underwear, it cannot be impeached.
I have heard the seagulls screaming on the beach.
I hate birds, I hope they do not crap on me.
I have lingered in my Chambers by the Sea,
Thrashing in my bedsheets red and brown,
'Til a rising tide awakes me, and I drown.
