Chant of the Llamas

The elk descend around me and they tie me to a chair,
They beat me up with mallets and they pull out all my hair.
A half a dozen llamas come and sing a little song
Harmonizing with a lemur almost forty inches long.
I haven't got a ratchet and I haven't got a wrench
The power tools are screaming as they tie me to the bench.
If I could be a lawyer I would sue them til they spew
But I am just a poet, so there's nothing I can do.

The fire ants were choking at the turning of the screw
I burned them into ashes and put on my other shoe.
I lashed out at my captors; I flailed with all my might
The catapult was burning in the middle of the night.
We'd gaze upon the fire, we'd prance about the lawn
We'd dance the fucking limbo until all the ants were gone.
Some nights are made for gatherings, and some are made for show
But few nights are made for balsa wood still smoking in the snow.

Once I tried a nectarine; it wasn't very good
It wasn't blue and powdery like proper musings should.
We threw stuff out the window and it landed in the street,
The buses just ran over it and stopped upon my feet.
The nights are getting colder, I slumber and I doze
The nectarines have icicles that poke into my nose.
A total hysterectomy is never very nice
But it's better than a snow cone when you're frozen in the ice.

A hockey player's severed limbs were found in Larry's sink
I found them in the water when I went to get a drink.
We'll plant them in the garden, and watch the pumpkins grow
So take a few along with you wherever you may go.
Or drop them from the seventh floor and have a gourd instead
While severed limbs and hockey pucks rain down upon your head.
The wood that falls down from the sky, it makes my elbows ache
So stack it up and strike a match and burn me at the stake.

A dozen roaches lift me up and stuff me full of cheese
The larger chunks are on the floor so grab them if you please.
It melts within the fireplace and all the toasters sing
The laundry room is burning down from fighting static cling.
That horrid little kid next door was leaping on the bed
A pillow stuffed with Parmesan on which I lay my head.
The shattered glass flew through the night, we sent him on his way
And there we sat in tender bliss until another day.

Gozzleheads and vibroluxe come stomping through the rain
To flounce around the whoop-de-doo and chow on sugarcane.
A bacchanalian wonder fest that's heard for miles around
We'll wear the flaming headdress, then we'll dive into the sound.
Tomorrow morning we will sob as sundrops fall away
While Cousin Bruce and gozzleheads are spouting curds and whey.
They'll place it in the history books, our praising of the sun
If launching catapulted goats is your idea of fun.