Worn out pieces of trash

 If you are sure you found them

If the motor turns or claims

Then the service that will start them

May turn a key inside your brain

If you stand with both arms folded you know

You're sure to stand in vain

But if you stand with both palms open

Then here's a hoping they'll be your refrain

Don't stick it to the Major

You know he doesn't care

Don't stick it to Jimmy carter

When you know that he won't barter

No you know his name

His name is on the lion's mane

His name is in the working bane

In the living pain

And dying drain

That flushes out apostles from imposters

And the dossiers from the monsters

And it brings all the monasteries to the brink of disasterous

Corpuscles who wait in corpus Christi forums

Or museums of rust

And anti-trust fund babies

Who run around with rabies

And curtain off the Habeus Corpus of the law

Until we all say you cannot touch the spirit anymore

And they die in the gutter of what they utter

As the trains roll on in utter contempt for the law

And the politicians splutter their gonorrhoea swollen spores

Over the poor and cough and cutter up

The fish heads above their doors

Who stand guard for the hard sailors

Who've gone left their wives in the arms

Of those they implore to do more

Than they would in their plaices

But not so yellow as their soles, they sold

For a quarter of a penny more

And this is the quarter of an hour mark to heaven.

This is dialectically opposed to forgiven, 

Gibbons of gibbous moons

And loons and ducks and geese of all Canada held spent

In the arms race with the moose

But she went on the ice and drowned in a barrel twice as tall as

The tallest apple bobber and then she felt

Like she might explode, she smelt it and then she did it