Ooga On A Camel

As I ate a bratwurst, picnicked with mama in the garden of stones. Six feet above bones. Listening to the gramophone echo Bela Lugosi. Just east of the sequoia. In a prelude to my gothic opus. Playing the dude in the nude on white silver sands. Through the grapevine shedding my pits. Stuck in Lodi again without a pin to the hold-up my adult depends.  

South of Seatle, riding tall in the saddle, like Lady Godiva woofing down a slider between porn and an Ooga horn on a camel. But it's all just a name on love's portmanteau without an Oscar that makes me a star. As the average man struggles to get by or buy a lottery ticket and put gas in their Harley.  
 
While pushing a piercing pin through granny's vagina as she sings, "What A Wonderful World for Tetanus." Not forgetting postnasal drip or her mud flap hips. But it isn't over until I drag my nuts through a field of clover on a Saipan in LA.