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FAGIN AND THE SACRAMENT
© Cynthia Hilts 1998
A Fagin-looking goon of doom is in the kitchen with the boyz
Street, the name
Filth, the game
Fagin and the sacrament
Eyes full of mystery, he digs out day old pastry
From clean
Garbage-bag green
Yeah, that's some sacrament
Eyes like telescopes, dispenses them like ceremonial dope
Hypnotic priest
Of sugar and yeast
A man and his sacrament
His old dog Wolf that silly mutt
Wags on over with his smelly butt
For a friendly snuffle and a wheeze
Up the skirt of somebody's temporary squeeze
Dilettante squatter
Some rich fool's daughter
Mutters Fagin with his sacrament
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FAGIN cont'd
The greengray ghost of transcendental cakes and grubbing fingers
Doesn't want that dumb old friendly Wolfdog stinker
Corrupted by some seamless little tease
Somebody's know-nothin' bourgeois uptown squeeze
By god and hell, she oughta know damn well
Not to pet the grand familiar
Of Fagin, he's got sacrament
He orders the dog to sit and the mystery begins
A tale that grows more brooding as his spindly little web spins
Of the wondrous terrors of the London fog
And Wolf, yeah, the stinkbutt killer dog
Oh, right, old butt-waggin' Wolf, the terrifying killer
Oh yeah, the obedient stinkbutt skirt-snufflin' familiar
Of Fagin, the guy with the sacrament
Eyes as mysterious as telescopes
Stale pastry as luscious as religious dope
Garbage bag and killer dog so full of promise
Will somebody get rid of this doubting Thomasina?!
Yells Fagin
In his head with his sacrament
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