Here's one of my nasty ones.
[LAUGHS] That's real sick when I-- yeah, it is, but I like it.
[LAUGHS] It's called "The Mortician's 12-year-old Son."
It's sick and funny, but then think about it
and you'll probably throw up maybe.
[LAUGHTER]
"Mortician's 12-year-old Son."
"Lady, when you were alive, I'd see you
on the streets, long green dress with a velvet flower,
sown dead center between your breasts,
so tightly I could never get a look inside.
Now the gas lamps half light the table,
washing the sheet that covers you with shadows.
A few strands of your dyed red hair hang nearly to the floor
as if all your blood had run there to hide.
I lift the sheet, rub the mole on your cheek,
and it comes off black and oily on my hand.
I bend over your breasts and sing, love,
sister's just a kiss away.
Just a kiss away.
I cover your nipples with my mouth.
Tonight these breasts belong to me."