Roscoe Wrangler, Honkytonk Homeslice

Like a tornado I was spun into this world,
blown free from mamma's womb in a dust
storm of blood and sweat and shit and
doctor hands and wet wailing baby cries.

Now I'm a man. It wasn't long in the coming.
I ain't nothing more than some pieces of cosmic dust,
held together by a conglomeration of badass skills and
kill, kill, kills piled one neatly on top of another.

I dance the night away like a fistfight in a crowded bar
with a drag queen for a bartender and the bar
filled with ex-cons sucking beers
who ain't seen a real vagina in years.

I shake and twist and shimmy, my hips thrust and thrive
my arms pump and shake and juke, and I jive, baby, jive,
and my throat clears at the sight of a lady.

Sweat drips from my brow, and yet I dance the ceiling, dance the floors.
It's, it's, it's in the very double helix of my being,
I'll dance and stomp that floor until the walls fall down and
the ceiling collapses o'erhead, and then I'll grab my hat
and dance on down the road to the next gin joint
filled with easy women and sawdust on the floor.

I'm Roscoe Wrangler, Honkytonk Homeslice,
I'm like a flaming drink spilled on your lap,
or a rattlesnake in your bed.