Absolutely Nothing

Without her flying tresses I would have, heretofore Had quite a hard time guessing From which way the wind blows Absolutely nothing should be thrown away On a desert island all of her must stay I wonder how I ever Survived without her cheeks That fed me two red apples On each day of the week Without her throat, my head Deprived of its pillow Would have no other bed Besides the dirty floor Without her solid carriage What would happen, who knows If I should lose my bearings And need a hand to hold? She has a thousand other Most precious attributes But on the stage, I'd rather Not show them all to you The charms of my love are Many, but the masses Must go somewhere else for Anatomy classes In fact, this is her weakness She loves her bones a lot She'd never acquiesce To be cut into parts She's not a little proud And also ticklish, quite And one must take the lot Or leave her all behind Absolutely nothing should be thrown away On a desert island all of her must stay When I was just a little lad My fear of swearing was so bad That even if I thought the word "shit" I never uttered it, But Now that I earn my daily wage Ranting and raving from the stage "Shit" never stays inside my head Instead it's said I'm the pornographer of the phonograph, sir The perverted son of the sing-along To titilate the balcony I spew all kinds of infamy Mouthfulls of raw and trashy French That don't make any sense, but When I'm back home under my roof I blame my soul with much reproof And cry "You twisted little elf Go fuck yourself" Every Sunday I'm in the booth Confessing all my words uncouth Giving the priest my solemn prayer To hide my derriere, but Fearing if I clean up my show I'll end up singing on skid row I'm back up on stage pretty fast Showing my ass My wife, to put it mildly Has a certain proclivity That makes her like to lay in the nude With just any old dude, But In all sincerity, how may I speak about this on the stage If I can't tell you that she's got Fire in her twat? Surely I'd gain much satisfaction Even a medal for my actions Singing with fervor of the love Reserved for God above, But My angel told me from her cloud "Singing of love is not allowed Unless that love describes the lore Of a filthy whore" And when I elegantly play For the boss of a cabaret Some pretty tune pulled from my vest It just leaves him depressed, And Holding back tears, he begs of me "If you sing flowers' majesty For pity's sake please let them grow In a bordello Every evening before I eat I sit out on my balcony Eyeing the gentle folks below In the setting sun's glow, But Don't ask me to compose a poem If it would upset you to know That I like watching every day Cunts on parade All the good souls with righteous hearts Are glad to know that when I depart Satan will make a shishkabob Of this foul-mouthed slob, But May the Lord in his omnipotence For whom words make no difference Admit into that shining tower On that somber hour Me, the pornographer of the phonograph, sir The perverted son of the sing-along