Another missing number in the jungle
Turned up with nothing but a loin cloth
To protect your tender penis
From what's danger and the wildlife

Your human nose making the least of all scent
Going dumb to the dynamics of clean air
Bare feet cringing cross the unkempt forest floor

Not ten minutes ago
You had been licking brass knuckles
And soaking up satellite feed
Beneath beating flash bulb blare
Being crowned this years Champi'o'king

Looking good bad after a beautiful thing
Big winner of the only and annual
'Serious serious gut's competition'
(Sponsored in part by the pain reliever people)
(And the heads of music television)

Yes, you and ten other tough guys
Slit smiles across your then perfectly sturdy stomachs
And spread your large intestines boldly
Out across a coated white poker table

The starter pistol barked
And each contestant commenced
To carefully comb their own eager entrails
From behind the one way wall of mirrored eye wear

Everyone a hopeful breathing heavy
Sifting through their mortal coil with their finger tips
For the most intimidating lengths
Of well sculpted and prime time stomach links

Every so often in the name of health
An executioner capped usher struts about the gut covered table
Misting everyone's exposed and heaving organs
With a modified and fancy water pistol

As always this years celebrity judges
Are only of the most incredible persuasion
Charles Bronson's angry and gay only daughter
Ice Cube back from when he was hard
And a framed 8x10 of Joe Namath's kneecaps

And because you won
They stitched up your open abdomen first
Gave you a nice Rambo knife, some choice cigarettes
And cut you loose in the Ozarks
The question being not if, but when
You will kill for your next meal
And besides you'd never gone missing before

In one months time they anticipate your turning up
In the lap of the Lincoln memorial
Wearing the stripped and cured flesh of another white rapper
Lovers and mothers, the last thing on your mind
Raw and reborn in the kill, as the red carpet goes wild

The vice magazine people serving up
A hard bucket of most happening blood
Feeding a spit roast pig in your honor
Kissing the wind, calling you boss

Phantom hearts clinking half empty
In the leftover and once humored
Still, arrogant air