She's ma best whore from way down
by the dry docks of ole Baltimore,
strokes ma thin hair like a hot damn wind
blowing thick and weird thru a wildcat's lair.
She wears wicked gold rouge from her curly-cue
locks straight down to them twelve twinklin' toes,
soon enough we'll sit back and fly so off-coloured high,
smoke e-lectric fake cigarettes before we land on a much
too short runway of sinking quicksand, then take a tuk-tuk
to see our for-sale ramshackle hut on the tattered outskirts
of quaint Kokomo where the obscene politicos kiss babies
and gators, then toothily smile and stab straight through
the sternum their departed foes.
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