Butt-headed

Exactly what I’ve been tellin’ y’all,
yeah, sometimes the smell’s enough,
other times, you gotta hear it shouted,
but of course now, even you are too,
after thickly dripping inside it for years,
once you’ve finally hit the proverbial fan.

No cover girl loses a dime on you, girl,
ain’t afraid of that odoriferous mud pack,
running your fingers through for emphasis,
to spray against your golden cage’s bars,
which might as well be completely solid,
because it’s only reeling right backward.

Jesus gave word ahead that you’d be coming, honey,
with Him under that blessed chocolate river, baptizing,
taken to a backseat yet again before halfway starting,
since we’re not anywhere near finishing this experiment,
bucking ghostly obstacles strategically placed among us,
so a select can appear like heroes to those desperate.

Let’s broil more chicken to supply your loving folds,
hear that comical beeping as you mangle a moonwalk,
feeling them buttered buns just begging for tough steak,
then empty an arousal of mustard gas and rosemary,
bubblin’ your caramelized potlikker for their bottles,
sent out to special gourmet shops across the south waist.