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