Memo From Turner
Didn't I see you down in San Antone, on a hot and dusty night?
You were eating eggs in Sammy's, when the black man there drew his knife.
Aw, you drowned that Jew in Rampton, as he washed his sleeveless shirt.
You know, that Spanish-speaking gentleman, the one that we all call: Kurt!
Come now, gentlemen, I know there's some mistake.
How forgetful I'm becoming, now you fixed your business, shape.
I remember you, in Hemlock Row, in nineteen fifty-six.
You're a faggy little leather boy, with a smaller piece of stick.
You're a lashing, smashing, hunk of man.
Your sweat shines sweet, and strong.
Your organ's working perfectly, but there's a part that's not screwed on.
Weren't you at the Coke convention, back in nineteen sixty-five.
You're the misbred, grey executive, I've seen heavily advertised.
You're that great, gray man, whose daughter licks, policemen's buttons clean.
You're the man who squats, behind the man, who works the soft machine.
Come now, gentlemen, your love is all I crave.
You'll still be in the circus, when I'm laughing, laughing in my grave.
When the old men do the fighting, and the young men all look on.
And the young girls eat their mother's meat, from tubes of plasticon.
Be wary please, my gentle friends, of all the skins you breed.
They have a tasty habit, they eat the hands that bleed.
So, remember who you say you are, and keep your noses clean.
Boys will be boys, and play with toys, so be strong with your beast.
Oh Rosie dear, doncha think it's queer, so stop me if you please.
"The baby's dead," my lady said.
You gentlemen, why, you all work for: Me!
