Last night, sittin’ in an outhouse,
somewhere near Lake Pontchartrain.
On a porta-gullet slip slidin’ away,
balanced atop the fevered skin.
Singin’ nocturnes in th’ rain,
wit’ a voice of a licorice bassoon.
Th’ big wheels kept on turnin’
and grandpa thinkin’ it a train.
Kilt by a runaway rain barrel,
wavin’ and clingin’ Hi-De-Ho.
Ridin’ low in th’ monsoon.
wit’ hum of gut, th’ creek below.
