Slippery pippery impery slopes. Peach colored poses Don't know of their hopes. My mother once said You're not better of dead. But just for the record, Forget your own head. Your socks are untied I looked, then I cried. For reasons not flowing, For the truth I imbibed. Father, he knows Romanian woes. He'll let you find out From the prick of his nose. Sister she plays, How hard are her days? When you're ten you can't know An emotional haze. Sister she thinks Yet it's blurred by the drinks. She'll stumble and mumble Like my weakest links. Self you'll adore And ask for some more. You know there are limits, But you still don't feel sore. When it all loops again And the church calls 'AMEN'! Halleluja, bon voy-a-gee Like a pock on white men.