Meet Woman, Meat Woman

Meet Woman, Meat Woman,

why did you die?

Rotting on the ground made of tuna and rye!

salami goes hungry

underneath the sky;

you're a mountain of cold-cuts and fat.

Meet Woman, Meat Woman,

hidden underground--

flesh-golems hear the funeral sound!

Chanting out pater-noster,

pound for pound--

on the cracked walk you still lie flat!

The snake and the bike,

in the cage,

with the priest,

survived a riot at the funeral feast!

And the communards

all ply their trade as

Jack the Ripper drips the love he made.

Meat Woman, Meat Woman

flesh debased--

I'll wrap you in cellophane and let you taste--

The honey-drip nectar

of my subtle ways,

lunchmeat-mama

drives the carnivore craze.

The fish in the hole

is hollow and bare--

and the cook with the oil in his jet-black hair--

fingers the cavity

of the thing,

as the day rolls on, and the jailbirds swing.

Meat Woman, Meat Woman

it's quite clear:

your shelf-life is over and the end is near.

As the buildings burn,

and the cops give chase--

I drop a drab of mayonnaise on your cold-cut face!