The Windsor Chop – David Krejci


Seven Less Fingers

I know a place with pig patrol hiding swine without parole
To find it, go to heaven and dig a deep hole

It’s an Upton Sinclair Lewis town. A Jungle on Main Street with many a frown.
Where they put good people down

Can’t tell some people from a pig. Pile them tight in a metal rig.
Raise your cross and dance a jig.

One will grunt at the Country Club 99 at the Tiki Pub
Therein dies the rub

There’s a fire in Austin
Made of one part Jesus, two part gin
Somebody ran off with Rin Tin Tin
And there’s never any next of kin

They eat our neighbors with a plastic fork.
Drink our wine. Eat the cork.
Sometimes for fun they shoot the stork.

Let’s juxtapose what’s your’s and mine
One more time: pigs and swine
Do you prefer to hunt or dine?

How can I love what I hate? I can’t seem to separate church and state.
Things don’t come to those who wait.

So pack your meat in a stolen car. Borrow some warmth from the Northern Star.
I’ll hide my soul in a cookie jar.