Rubber chicken QEIII
Her Majesty's secret sauce
as Kentucky burns fried golden like the dickens
flying carpet bombing carpet kissers dipping
pouring oil upon the grease fire
by a mudsling to the mudslimes
a holy roller dervish derby
the chickens you say
with Yemen slices and salt crystals for the tongue
(peace be upon the Seal of the Prophets)
black pepper, blood ketchup, gold mustard
and straws to break the camels' backs
and finger-licking cotton-picking hot-mess-diggety
lickety-split persnickity package-sniffing dark star dog
rotisserie fricassed
old tymey religion chicken
with USS Coleslaw and mashed Al Queda with crazy on the side
a green dome sno-cone
no coke pepsi.
It's a Sahara mirage like the gold in old Fort Knox,
or the frankincense from Arabia Felix
for the mystery schools of Grease.
They hate us for our chickens
our Kentucky funky chicken gold sun ra
Memphis fried on the Chickasaw bluff,
home of the white King who died on his throne,
land where the black King dropped down to his tomb,
near Timbuktu, the home of the blues.
Ai-gy-ptos spins like a gyroscope
at the business end of a pyramid scheme.
Ambassadors of Soul negotiate with Pharaohs now
at the nuclear Necropolis,
say "Nyet" to NotYetaYahoo
and "wait" to Abominable Dinner Jacket
that needs to be I-roned out
and "are you Sirius?" to Dr. Syria
with a wife from Goldman Sachs.
They're re-writing the Marine Hymn
for plausible deniability
that they landed on the shores of Tripoli
to take out the Colonel who tortured chickens
because he'd eaten too much LSD.
It's a trans-cultural jubilee,
the grease for GDP,
shish kebabs of flesh for trade or sale,
kosher and halal, with double zeros in the eyes
for as long as it takes and as far as the eyes can see,
the mirage seen from the city on shit's creek.
No coke pepsi.
