Ballad of the Three Old Black Men with White Asses

Three old black men were sitting in the corner pub

Watching racquetball on a huge television. I turned to my wife and questioned her,

"When did old black men start watching that game? not to mention their

"Hefeweisens & their strange manner

"Of singing along to 'Tiny Dancer?'"

She told me not to be racist, & all blood is ancient blood.

Your peccadilloes are showing--, as you ride into the sunset

On your albino donkeys. I'll forget your peccadilloes

If you'll forgive me what I've done to the rhythms in the easier Jazzes.

There's time for redheads to experience my prurience,

And time to fast & fence in your densest penance.

You have sinned against Warren Buffet's family, in ways you can't even know yet.

Three old black men were disembarking a U.F.O. wearing white hot pants,

I watched them from my home on a huge television, & turned to my wife & asked her,

If their menthol cigarettes make the shuttle go faster?

She told me there's no place for racists

In an age of face-lifts & space-ships,

And she reminded me that all grafted plants are fancy transplants.

Your peccadilloes are showing--, as you fly towards Uranus

Faster than light-speed on your albino space-donkeys. I'll forget your pecadilloes,

If you'll forgive the time I painted pink your daughter's pussy willows.

This planet is feeling a general malaise,

And in these times we turn to outerspace

To ignite our spirits--, you struggle, but you also have sinned in tiny ways most heinous.

Three old black men were hanging out in the gardens of Babylon--,

I am going home today in the narrow gospel way. Like an alternate life,

As they lay their harps down & lament upon demand, I comment to my wife,

"If their song would be so beautiful,

"If their lot were not so pitiful?"

She told me not to be racist, & all spawn is ancient spawn.

Your peccadilloes are showing--, & so are your designer boxers.

Let my tongue stick to roof of my mouth when I eat peanut butter sandwiches,

And I'll forget your pecadilloes if you let me scratch my last lost racist itches.

Gird up your loins & pull up your pants,

All grafted plants are fancy transplants.

You might as well disappear into the setting sun on your albino donkeys: we're at the mercies of God's reimbursers.