Taken from Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself", from _Leaves of Grass_)
1 You there, impotent, loose in the knees,
Open your scarf'd chops till I blow grit within you,
Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets,
I am not to be denied...
Mine is no callous shell,
I have instant conductors all over me
[repeat 1]
2 I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers,
... And that's about as much as I can stand.
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End of city. Slab. Horror file
--
Dave Watson, Severed Heads Liberation Front (Re-release the _Stretcher_ ep!)
Frezier Balzoff (Ottawa), Ontario, Canada Email--aj153@Freenet. Carleton. Ca
"A man is measured by the depth of his anger."--Eddie
"Everyone in this room is wearing a uniform, and don't kid yourself!"--Zappa
