An Apologia after the Psalm 141
Oink for Deliverance from the Wicked
Dinkum, mate, I have to ask; get a wriggle on; (reprise) it’s as if he’s deaf, believe me.
I’m not just a bad smell; my uplifted hands an evening sacrifice; (reprise) many’s the pink drink I’ve raised pissed iss all lies!
Muzzle me, mate; I’m the fat lady who sings.
You allowed my thoughts incline to pies, yield to any sign; the McDonalds’ even where I thrice once bought an apple pie.
Yeah, over the back fence where I lived in Melbourne, next to Balwyn’s library; (reprise) yeah, that opposite that 24-hour superette.
I pledge I’ll not dine again on Maccas as long as I exercise free will; (reprise) Old McDonald’d be spittin’ chips if he knew what they did to his song.
Strike me pink; that is a given; let them tick me off; o, so pouring oil on a lit wick.
All this I shall not refuse, yet donkeys bray despite their trials.
When the fast foods oleaginous are overthrown, all will hear my brayers and laugh along.
All will cook by the Pigs Arm’s cooks’ book; o, readers, send your recipes in.
As when a bull looks at a butcher, so their choice cuts will be strewn at the mouth of Sheol; (aside) o, typo in the name of Shoe, oops.
You need be on your best, matey, cobber; this pub is my local; please, please don’t eat the daisies; (reprise) please.
I’m not paranoid, but seriously I’m thinking Security.
Let each be hoist on their own petard, while I run all the way home whee whee whee.
*disclaimer: not piglet Dave a.k.a. Astyages, troubadour to the Pig’s Arms.