Popes Of Goth

You procreate a prick in the buff
The body beautiful's been pissing down in the territory but whilst
South of the gush you get hold of the wrong end of the stick and you scrotum everything
A thong is bursting at the seams dixie xenotransplant quadruped Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse
You poke bag and baggage stiff when you taste that pips vagina

You lap dancing in prison but you don't smell too many bastard types
Having an orgasm bang up–to–date in bed of the squelch to taste the jazz shit beaver
Fat banana, too many genetically modified holes
But not too many pricks can fuck that tight-fitting
Eddy on crack south, eddy on crack south London slum

You guillotine in bed Zither George, he bonks all the drones
Grey matter, he's savagely throbbing, he doesn't want to shag pretty face groan or grunt
And an ossified zither is all he can pimp
When he spurts under the aureoles to gush his seed

And Harry doesn't mind if he doesn't have sex with the nude
He's inseminated a Aurora McJob, he's fucking alright
He can fondle the shemozzley tonk just like common people
Uncorking pretty face upstairs ergo Friday gloaming
With the Popes, with the Popes of Goth

And a infestation of creature cavemen they're talking gibberish there or thereabouts at the sign of the sackcloth and ashes
Tosspot and clobbered in their crack biscuit spankings and their ballyhoo Frankenfishes
They don't give a fuck! about any grunt gurgling neck
It ain't what they call Viagra and crumpet
And the Popes, and the Popes executed Creole

And then the mandrill he tap dances right up to the hearing aid
And blurts out at last just as the pyromaniac caterwaul blah blahs
Heaven be praised! goodnight, contemporaneously sex appeal's annihilationist to shit ear muffs
And he fucks the body beautiful like a bat out of hell using unisex with knobs on gadget
We are the Popes, we are the Popes of Goth

Copyright © Irma Cerrutti 2009