All My Best Friends Are Pop Culture

The ground he walked on was fucking gold,
Midos if I ever saw one
And lo and behold, the hound sniffs at the coat-tails like I thought
Worshipping his semen stains and the scent of his gonorrhea-infected piece
Bastards are created by the wandering soldier, and yet she swallows his shit as if it were apple cobbler.

Let’s face it, love is his battlefield, and you’re Charlie
His machine gun continues to pick you off every time you poke your head over that goddamn hill
Silly rabbit, assholes are for women, not little girls
Crawl on all fours back to him, he’s waiting with a cigarette and another woman.

Praise Mask, and may you live forever,
Your tattered marionette strings jumping with every thrust of his pelvis
And you complain of not seeing it…
Of course not, puppets aren’t made to look up.

Golly grief, Batman!
You’re a joker, a smudge on the face of his almost unmarred existence
And all he has to do is smile to wipe you clean
And willingly you allow the Brawny to whisk you away.

His trash can lies are the container you fall into
You litter the bottom where shit would more likely be welcome
He can’t even spray you out of his existence,
Your scent refuses to go away.