Where Jesus Christ is the Dixiejew
(He inched along like a creature too)
Cometrees grow out the stinkin’ ditch
And the bloody-shins soak off the rickety bridge,
Floor-joists creek like the hinges of Hell,
And the head-count’s high down the waterless well.
The foetal’s met the fatal just a time or two
And the writin’s wroten rotten on a plank of wood.
What was spoken light will be tested at night
Where the White Thang sings, the state bird bites.
While you’re diggin’ up tiny extra rows of teeth,
Behold this fascist Killmachine.

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