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To keep America under the gun Where he began his mad race So he lands back in the place Outside it’s ringed with gold And the hint of a trumpet scold But inside the place is a swamp A cesspool, a sewer, a romp For Cow is best when his sex Is under the sign of the hex A bad sign for the everyday fool But not for a Mister Cool A master, a mister, a rule Cow has a Rex in his head He’s crowned before going to bed The dreams will come soon enough They are thin, dreary and rough But for Cow they are mirrors on glass Showing his beautiful ass Then he looks for his dick And becomes dreamy sick For the storm that took the wall away Made his penis small, not up to play So Mad Cow woke in a small-hands daze And said dreams were meant for some French phase Then he gets back in his tanning bed With everything going to his head. His orange face is almost done Mission accomplished, now where is the sun? |
| Mad Cow is feeling his horny Grasses are rough, steep and stormy It’s no Game of Thrones Nor a barnyard with bones It’s his playground with walls A place for lost balls It’s a cavern, a strip, an uncharted road The entrance is marked with the sign of the Toad. Mad Cow can mount a third of the herd Holding his breath, not saying a word Knowing the word would get out of the lot About what he is, and what he is not. He distracts, he retracts Gets messy with facts Sees a dick in a cloud And says half aloud That cirrus is hung Like a pile of sweet dung Then runs to the net To say water is wet Then a philosophical turn Stating fire can burn Saying history can last Because it’s the past And long putters the way If you want to become gay And China invented the sun |