On an unspecific weekday in a not that trusted month a child was born half media with a name and brown bagged lunch His ears were warped and wobbly and his mouth was full of teeth On his belly was no button As his hair was combed and greased He spoke in pure heiroglyphics With a wrist bend and pinache They taught him that in art school just watch this monster mash He is a photoshop crusader with a visor, lance, and plume manufacturing girl scout cookies upon his glittered loom His friends were a dimed baker's dozen and they swore to god he was greater Since he could stretch a canvass with his bum while remaining a shoe horned fornicator Now you might be asking yourself What sweet jesus could it all mean? It really only boils down to this There's no poetry, with no spleen.