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letra de sexist security - the prophet obblonge

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so, check this out
i die and wind up with my eyebrow c-cked, facing st. peter at the gates of heaven
he’s like, what the f-ck 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 sh-t
and what do you know, it’s full
wasn’t that way when i died, bonus
i don’t know man, it’s your f-cking 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 f-cking 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 s-x with

- the prophet obblonge

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