4 and 21 crows,
None go south,
For the supper when a punk goes out,

Checkerboard of mothballed death-forms,
Hauled via vaudeville canes,
And encased where the claw marks wane off broadway the god way,

Watch, our father,
Commuters from the farms with news of el chupacabra,
Who transfuse soup out a fresh punk skull,

Dumb full blood suckers,
Only the chum suffers,
Pine box butcher,

Encouraging poor lighting,
Said ?a pall bore not a sure sign ofjarred lightning",
Harsh, that's how the yellow spine-diner was born,

Feral feeding that strung his organs up like tire swing art,
Chippin' a drippy set of broke bone grinders,
More for the hive mind,

Less for the land mine finders,
Fine, no defacto leaders in the eatery,
Unless you count the way they led his heart through his tuxedo tee,

Straight out the front

4 and 22,

Cue the cut throat mouth,
Chew together when a punk goes out,
Etiquette of tart-tongued ghouls,

Never run truck jewels,
Run a culinary school for gluttony-drunk wolves,
In guttural grunts,

Smothering buttery lung ramen,
Early sign of punk showed up on the diagnostic,
Hm, pardon if i seem stand all the see-sawed loss, i cant call it,

All petite drawn straws and orange caution,
Or outcast creeps re-involved for absolvement,
It's gaudy, plus when a hell-bound offspring and yours share an all evolve salty,

Watch, if fortune is a (*##$ with venom and laser tits,
Maybe sin'll make for sugar-flavored flesh,
Kings taste terrible at best and rest in peace raw,

The rest are recipes,
Caw!