She sifts through the cornfields backwards, yes, backwards
We quietly brandish our arsenal, pitchforks are pointing directly at her now
She peers through the curtains and showers us with sunshine
At last glance, the brightness drips down from her hollowed mouth
Reminds us of The Most Dangerous Game, written in 1924!
Reminds her of Predator 2, released on VHS in 1991!
Either way, some shit went down, you know it
Wouldn't be afraid to show it but censors hate it
Grotesque (gross) as it may seem, vivisected trauma queen
(beady-eyed egg machine)
So when she opens up her eyes, most of her body won't be there
She cracks her mouth to form a smile, a side effect of wear and tear
Searching this thick skin for protrusions and lesions,
A carborator filled with feed and influenza,
A prickly prick to prick the pricks when she decides to fall into them
Dangerous highway phlegm, incubated pullorum
She tucks her head in, sensing fowl play is near
THE - HUNT - HAS - BEEN - FIXED
She was goosed right from the start,
But only now she knows about the hunt being fixed
We've waited for the season to come,
So let's shoot us down some goddamn birds
Constructed feathers in mechanical flight,
Straight from the beak of sharpest intent to flee with the rest of the V
Chickenhead would never think to take us for granted in the first place,
After all, what goes will come inside her swollen cluckhole
(inside her fucking hole, inside her clucking hole)