歌詞: Subtle. Other. Midas Gutz.

Another missing number in the jungle.

turned up with nothing but a loin cloth

to protect your tender penis from what's danger & the wildlife.

Your human nose making the least of all scent.

going dumb to the dynamics of clean air,

bare feet kringing cross the unkept forest floor.



Not ten minutes ago...

You had been licking brass knuckles and soaking up satelite feed

beneath beating flash bulb blare, being crowned this years champi'o'king.

looking good bad after a beautiful thing.

Big winner of the only and annual "serious serious gut's competition"...

(sponsored in part by the pain reliever people and the heads of music television)



Yes, you and ten other tough guys

slit smiles across your then perfectly sturdy stomachs

and spread your large intestines boldly out across a coated white poker table....

the starter pistol barked and each contestant commenced to carefully comb

their own eager entrails from behind the one-way wall of mirrored eyewear.

everyone a hopeful breathing heavy

sifting through their mortal coil with their finger tips,

for the most intimidating lengths

of well sculpted and primetime stomach links.



Every so often... in the name of health

an executioner capped usher struts about the gut covered table

misting everyone's exposed and heaving organs

with a modified and fancy water pistol.



As always this years celebrity judges are only

of the most incredible persuasion

charles bronsons angry and gay only daughter,

icecube back from when he was hard

and a framed 8x10 of joe namath's kneecaps.



And because you won they stitched up your open abdomen first...

gave you a nice rambo knife, some choice cigarettes

and cut you loose in the ozarks.

The question being not if, but when

you will kill for your next meal...



and besides you'd never gone missing before...



In one months time they anticipate your turning up

in the lap of the lincoln memorial

wearing the stripped and cured flesh of another white rapper.

lovers and mothers the last thing on your mind

raw & reborn in the kill: as the red carpet goes wild





The vice magazine people serving up

a hard bucket of most happening blood...

feeding a spit roast pig in your honor,

kissing the wind calling you boss...

phantom hearts clinking half- empty

in the leftover and once humored

still, arrogant air...