Dated 15-August-2002
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I’m sipping the juice from out of his eyes,
I’m roasting them both his big juicy thighs,
I’m stewing his skull for its cranial prize.

His Feet I have bronzed as cheap souvenirs
Yule decorations from both of his ears
And I toss the butt, I’m not in to rears

I’m drying the skin a goodly sized pelt,
It’s good for some shoes, or may be a belt,
Scalp makes a sporran though I’m not a Celt

His innards are soft Slow cooked in a crock
His balls are the weights on my coo-coo clock
I won’t even say What’s up with his cock

The bones I throw out, I’ve got quite a few.
Intestines are trash, and not good to stew
They’ve really no taste, and stringy right through

If you know some things, to do with the rest,
Please send out a list, to my postal address,
I truly hate waste, I’m totally stressed.