The follwoing is a slow country song with no discernible structure or melody: Pudding rotates In a glassware shell A little slice of pie A little piece of hell My coffee’s cold Like the night you were leavin’ When I was stone drunk, Dog-sick and dry heavin’ The waitress stomps over Her good eye is winkin’ She wants me to order But I can’t stop thinkin’ I’ve been sitting in this diner In my crinkled old Wranglers When I should be out fishin With my bug-eyes and danglers. I’m scared of your lipstick And afraid of your curls I’m afraid of your cleavage All draped with fake pearls But I made you a promise Which I ain’t keen on breakin’ And I know I’ve got balls, Cause I can feel them quakin’ Then in you walk With your eight-inch heels Your high-pitched squeals Like nails on chalk. Your makeup is trashy Your cigarette’s ashy Your clothes are too flashy But I can’t look away. Well you know that I am a dangerous man And you’re a hellbender they say But if you try to bind me or lasso me in It’ll cost you more than you can pay. You tell me there’s a bun in your oven And that I’m the baker-man, and got ta do right, Well no woman could tame me, and no one would blame me If you ended up face down in a dumpster tonight. But I might have a soft spot for you, little lady, And your whiskey-tinged breath makes me tingle. Let's you an me hop in my old eff-one-fifty And make the dimes in the cupholders jingle.