I'm nobody so don't cross me, cross-breed pavement special
Illegitimate son of fungus, the mutated lung
Scoping the headlines, glaring pictures, over-simplified text
Hitting their senses, entering human consciousness
Without a necessity for an intermediary process of reason
Like food shot through the rectum, requiring no digestion
I'm stuffing a dead chicken into a glass bottle then filling the bottle with milk
I'm gonna seal that bottle tighter than a yoga-locked vagina
Johnny's gonna pay you a little visit visit when nobody is home

In a few months your clever little presents gonna open itself all on its own
You'll feel like ginny grindeth in a little cell defending his butt-hole all through the night
As scary spirits penetrate your sanity and begin to crawl through your mind

The post-cynical, clinical, miracle-monger unravelling lyrical thunder
Morphing endorphins gushing, rushing, crushing physical hunger
Don't touch me, Johnny Stokes a hundred and forty-four carved into my forehead
It's my birthday on the 23rd of December two thousand and twelve