Sacred Massacre

A voice is heard accompanied by pipes & drums--,

Tweedle, tweedle, dub-a-dub,

Weeping & mourning in the corner pub--,

A dictum over the railways, a rider this way comes,

A failsafe second chance, wave your hand to air the fumes,

And all the little wishing fishes

Clear the table of their dirty dishes.

Meet me by the Salton Sea at high tide:

That's no way to talk about a mass infanticide.

Escape into the new moon, pipes & drums as a diversion--,

Tweedle, tweedle, dub-a-dub,

Merrily, merrily, there's the rub--,

A smiling but cordial Persian orca, in this version

Is the agent of a wet holocaust, a sort of saltwater extermination.

And all the little wishing mammals

Pack up their kids like one-hump camels,

And drive towards the Salton Sea, be there by high tide:

That's the highway to avoid mass infanticide.

An insolent king will succeed the high priests--,

Tweedle, tweedle, dub-a-dub,

A jealous one-eyed incestuous hubbub--,

And mix his dictum in a cauldron with nightshade & wildebeest meats,

Certain right revolting fantasies, one of the damnedest amplest feasts.

But the blue veins on his mother's mammaries,

Will be a map towards the safe territories.

Rachel weeping for her children, & there is no place to hide:

The only way to react after a mass infanticide.

Did you hear the ululating? did you hear the drums & pipes--?

Tweedle, tweedle, dub-a-dub,

Hide your corn liquor in the bathtub--,

Not just the Maccabean blood, but all the bloody stars & stripes,

From Malibu to mishmash, all different types of baby bottom wipes.

And all the little wishing ducklings,

Follow their leader like newly-weaned sucklings.

Did you hear me complaining by the seaside?

How dare you make bad jokes about a mass infanticide?

Escape into the water, Elle Mary, traveling so soon after nativity--,

Tweedle, tweedle, dub-a-dub,

And psalmody sung by an immortal cherub--,

That such a feud should be between a king & a baby,

All over a rattle, like Tweedle-Dum & Tweedle-Dee,

And like the little wishing pundits,

They nitpick pish-tosh like tats for tits.

The king will kill his own pig & eat it refried,

His own personal loss from his own mass infanticide.

A voice is heard in Tijuana, & with ancient pipes & drums--,

Tweedle, tweedle, dub-a-dub,

Carousing till 4am at a degenerate nightclub--,

None of these mothers have totaled their sums,

Unimpregnated, unbirthed, indifferent to the rider when he comes,

And all the fishes wishing to be born

Will have to wait till after massacre morn.

Down by the Salton Sea, a refugee sat down & cried,

That's no way to talk about a mass infanticide.