The whole village awoke this morning to the banshee-like sound of Thomsic Shotskin’s hideous singing. We finally manage to get rid of Carmichael and another nut comes by the very next day to take his place. He sang the damn thing at least thirty times before collapsing exhausted, his dusty old mouth snapping at the air uselessly.
Thomsic Shotskin’s Song
Don’t talk to me
With eyes of honey
Tra-la-tra-la-lee
Cause soon I’ll be free
Tell me a story
Filled with divorce
Try not to bore me
With words like of course
Don’t talk to me
From beneath the tree
My next killing spree
Has passed behind me
Pull on my doldrums
Polish my spine
Fill up my mouth-hole
With leprosy wine
Don’t talk to me
Cause I can still see
Your savage old beak
Encrusted with (sic)
Open up backwards
Lend me a limb
My life is a mattress
Said himher to him
Don’t talk to me
With mountains of sea
My poor empty belly
Scared shitless of bees
But I don’t know why
Your bandage is blue
You laugh at a sky
That’s done nothing to you
Don’t talk to you
All chimney-pot blue
That necklace is new
It suits you more than you
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