I think maybe it’s black
Frank thinks what I say is whack
Jenny’s into Buddha and all that jack
Frank says to Jenny there’s no way you’ll come back
Rob interjects—he’ll put money on it—it feels like a thick brown rope with no slack
Willy claims he knows what it feels like; forever trapped under the weight of an elephant’s ballsack
Frank tells Jenny she’ll find out if she doesn’t stop smoking crack
I feel around my pockets for a little round tin; I’ve got a lip to pack
Big truck screams like the amplified buzz of eighteen yellow-jackets
Whack, I fly, like a ball on a tennis racket
Frank gets shot like a bunny-rabbit
Jenny never kicks the bad habit
Rob gets stabbed by a tribesman’s spear just for looking at it
Willy, cocky, switches lanes fast, his car smashed to bits
Next I’ll be a king-pin of an offshore gambling racket
I bet Jenny came back as a yellow-jacket