An alien invention?

No Rudders but arms

                 Mengele was my literary suicide

 When he posted the note

                            Spiel, spiel, spiel

And I read what I thought he’d written

                            Instead of what he wrote

Another intervention?

Many hands stopped the bottle to my lips

                                       Heil, heil, heil

To the vodka, whiskey, gin

                She’s my octopus, my paper cut, my tangerine

It’s only right to just stop tonight

                                 And try again tomorrow when I’m clean

Just unnecessary tension?

                               I’ll buy a thought, rent an idea,

Form an opinion when that last cheque clears

                                            Kneel, kneel, kneel

Before Zod and his minions who treat him as if he was a god

                   As all his arms are tied up behind his back

He bomb-drops right over the pier

                    And submerges deep whilst the coast is near

Yes, he’s no more an octopus than you or I

                     But unlike us observers

                               He gave it a good fuckin’ try


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