There Was A Man Of About Eighty-Four
His Wings Of Glory Torn Off Long Before
Hunkering Over Getting His Mail
Here Is A Quick Fantasy Of Mine, For Which I Would Have Surely Gone To Jail
I Sped Up In My Pick-Up Truck
I Would Run Over Him If I Had Any Luck
My Eyes Closed And Bump
I Hit A Huge Lump
I Opened My Eyes And Saw On The Window Blood Had Splattered
I Smiled As If It Didn’t Really Matter
As I Saw His Body Contorting And Twisting
Seeing This Was Like Scratching A Place That Was Itching
You Think I Am Evil You Say
I Assure You If You Saw Him These Thoughts Would Be At Bay
For I Made His Entrails A Great Vulture’s Meal
And He Was My Beautiful Roadkill