Smithern Wesson

You're not shy enough, son,
thinkin' you ain't bleedin'
at the end of this gun -
face down in the pulpit,
picking carpet from your teeth,
getting blushes from the nuns,
as you pick a little fun with
your fingers and your thumbs.

And you're a little bit dumb:
struttin' like a carcass
sans spine, sans tongue,
muttering a hot mess
down the breasts 
of a loved one.
More rain,
Less sun,
More pain,
Bar none -
Now we let the record run.