I knew a man from Washington
Who gave up politics
And wound up selling all his stuff
And even suckin’ dicks.

I met him in a restaurant
That had no ambience —
No good, no bad, no in between —
Which made no fuckin’ sense.

He asked if he could buy me lunch.
I said that I just ate.
He then gave me a puzzled look,
Which quickly turned to hate.

He threw his penis at my face,
And so I had to duck,
And then he threw his scrotum sac,
So I said, “What the fuck?”

He threw the fight for fifty bucks
And even sold his ass
To guys named Frank who fucked him
In a bag of broken glass.

He’s tried to change his jaded ways
(Whatever that shit means).
He’s tried to change his underwear
But kind of likes the stains.

He’s tried to change a dollar bill
At various sperm banks —
He’s done a lot of stupid shit . . .
He’s done a lot of Franks.

I told him he was wasting life
And wasting all his time.
(I told him lots of other things,
But most of them don’t rhyme.)

I still don’t know the cracker’s name —
But I sure know his wife . . .
And — something else I know for sure —
Her pussy’s changed my life.