i think you’ve got the wrong man

tom corn lived a more peaceful life than tom horn, the meat eater is a evil doer, the green eater is a peaceful wooer. he has his girls and he knows his world, he loves it so that he wouldn’t go to the butchers. the red meat, sitting in his seat, fat feet, sweating without heat man guzzles his gravy and eats a women’s baby, cause he likes the taste yet lacks the regard to leave not any waste. the bones he throws and never shall he bury, for what good is a burial for a hoodlum fairy. I do hate the buddha and I do hate you, though I couldn’t say why or whom I belong too. there isn’t much time and I must be on my way. but as I’ve said before, I shall say again today. I think you’ve got the wrong man, for im only going to Cheyenne and when I get there you’ll know me by name, but for now I shall only be a face on a train. I think you’ve the wrong man, I never knew a better jew than the one who gave me this plan, to bomb a muslim high school full of children who are black, when I first heard this tale it gave me a heart attack, I know not the weather, I know not the day, but in Cheyenne there is a golden way which I shall follow home and make it my hollow zone, building family and building bricks and not giving two shits. I think youve the got wrong man, he’s off in Gibraltar giving it to two women with one hand, I think you’ve got the wrong man, he’s out it Mexico grazing on the land, me? im just chewing the fat, and wondering what it is about that hat, why does it do things to me, why does it make me swell with pride, every time I put it on I feel I can no longer hide. my privilege is my own and this ill never share, for I am man who should never have to care. I think you’ve got the wrong man, he’s downtown in soho way and he might be straight but he’s probably gay. giving it to me is a plan I like indeed, shoving it inside is a way for him to breed. ironic shouldn’t you think, at least I do. though that could be my pride, its alters the things I do.

I think you’ve got the wrong man, hes out in Paris, France sucking on a popsicle and laughing whilst he dance. I think you’ve got the wrong man, he’s listening to his phone as it plays somber melodies from a digital saxophone. as for me im blending biscuits with milk and butter please, if I could only see you you’d call ‘old cheese’ and point and prick and suck and sick at my new profanity, but for the grace of god I find no sensibility. do yourself a favour, cut it off or cut it out, that man is long gone and disappeared into the south, the south of where you wonder? the south of where you ask? I couldn’t say at all, he’d tear me limb from ass. so if you spot him on the road and he rings his little bell, don’t come calling or else you’ll end up in hell. yes I think you’ve got the wrong man, the wrongest man indeed, for he’ll pick you up and put you down and you’ll be jumbled all around and not know up from down and not know which day it is, but its Tuesday to set you straight, now out the door there waiting for you at your wake.
you died and didn’t even know it, your blood drained from their sockets, if only you had a plaster (it would need to be big indeed) you could have covered up that dirty graze upon your knee. which way you ask, to the cemetery? i think its down corbets tey upon that snow tipped heath, though i have been wrong before and led men to their weddings when instead they should be bedding the earth filled with worms sucking on your earn(ings) when you were alive and kicking and making it in the kitchen. you could of been the head chef if it wasnt for that no good jeff, he mocked you and stole your world, he had your girl for goodness sake and you just sat there take take take, well if you never give then you never learn. now into that purple glazed, silver capped urn. i’ll put it on my mantle and let the guests all know ‘here lies the promises that we tell ourselves’ and inscribe that in gold.
one more thing before you sit within my !living! room, if i sit down with a cup of tea one dreary afternoon and flick upon the telly the repeat of wednesday last, then don’t you shake and dont you rattle, or else i’ll smash you with none to tattle.