The Prophet Obblonge - Sexist Security
So, check this outI die and wind up with my eyebrow cocked, facing St. Peter at the gates of heaven
He's like, what the fuck are you doing here
I search my rumpled ghost clothes and come up with my antique silver cigarette case
I guess cause it's silver, werewolves and shit
And what do you know, it's full
Wasn't that way when I died, bonus
I don't know man, it's your fucking gig
My trusty Cthulhu Zippo has not made the trip, graven image of another god
Right, bad call on my part
St. Peter
Alright, so why should I let you through these gates
Inspiration strikes
I form the familiar rubber band pistol with my thumb and forefinger
Firing the handgun, a flame appears at the top of my index
I light my smoke
It tastes heavenly, as it should
Then I realize my somewhat transparent fingertip is on St. Elmo's fire
I shake it like you shouldn't do to a polaroid picture, and it luckily sputters out
Not the time to act goofy and lose face, right
Exhaling the exhilarating vaporistics through my now glass-like nostrils, I intone
I totally banged all four sisters next door
St. Peter stands aside dramatically, a fucking angelic matador gesturing to his side and
Beyond
My man
Don't let this scenario become a reality, Patty
Please
Let the third sister be the last anything I ever have sex with
Written by:
Michael Mackenzie
Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid
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