It’s a mental apocalypse and the robots have socialized medicine.
The trees are made out of cheese. The moon is a sour apple.
And your face is a fading fog of fart.
Gnarboots have entered the solar system
We have a ten gallon hatchet and a pair of false teeth.
We have a box of sock puppets and a bunch of porcupine lips.
We got laughing gnomes trapped in the back of the shark tank.
Gnarboots want to pummel your pancakes.
We want to strangle your saltine cracker.
We want to choke your charley horse.
We want to spank your spumoni and sit down on your silly string sundae.
Gnarboots stand on a three foot pile of midgets
Midgets with wrinkled frog faces
And they have mustard for blood.
And their legs are made of sausage.
Gnarboots see beauty in your potential.
You are dressed in a cloud of puke.
Your whooshing belly is a wheelbarrow of grotesque proportions.
Your un-phallic stubby nose is a miniature ass, and we’re a miniature cock.
Gnarboots enjoy the horrible stench of plastic
It feels good to disappear in the brown fog of tonic coffee water.
It feels good to snort bullets and sagging five dollar bills.
It feels good to jerk our broke turkey necks and spit out puddles of coconut milk.
Gnarboots relax in mud baths
We think about the zombies that ate all our ancestors.
Words crash-land against the great big broccoli cheddar soup in the sky.
Other people waste time in the forest like old-fashion whores.
Gnarboots give birth to breakfast burritos.
Money tubes shaped like shit tacos.
And people eat maggots off of rotting cheese.
And their barrel butts attract the attention of tiny mosquitoes with hockey puck eyes.
Gnarboots are infested with termites.
Rotten from the inside out; frail and withered metal on the outside.
Our Kleenex skin is covered in virus digesting snot.
We’re attacking the public like a bowl of red fruit loop army ants.
Gnarboots wear plaid button up shirts.
Shiny leather boots and novelty sombreros.
As for Fashion, we aint the fucking police
But shit goes south, heads are gonna roll through the doggy door.
Gnarboots will carry you in a stroller.
Watch the world drag past your eyes.
Watch the white shit spill out your face as you think on your assumed identity.
Watch the squashed pumpkins being force fed as you try to cover your mouth.
Gnarboots give a fuck, despite what you heard.
We see the dying babies and tortured puppies and cry a pool of sorrows.
It’s just our duty. We aint your momma’s booty. We are slightly snooty, but aint got cooties.
Call us up at night and tell us where to suck it.
Gnarboots have wobbly ostrich knees.
We have a plumber’s ass, but a supermodel’s body.
We bob for apples in Bob Hope’s toilet.
And wipe that blank expression off when we’re finished.
Gnarboots know how to use a mop.
And can clean up after our incontinent pop.
Our bright white Vegas polo shirt is tucked underneath ten wife beater tank tops.
And our diapers have all the latest gizmos.
Gnarboots means business.
We mean bulging pants as face tattoos
We mean spinning waffle hats on Spring break.
We mean cows that French-kiss their grievances…and who complain in Italian.
Gnarboots will smash pistachios.
We’ll play baseball with our danglies hanging passenger seat out.
We’ll talk politics with horse faced teen sensations.
We’ll bend young girls’ ears and learn respect.
Gnarboots have a few regrets.
There were a few thoughts that were better left in the shit can.
A few comments were posted on your self-help blog that weren’t so helpful.
A few stains were wiped on your blanket while you were busy at siesta.
Gnarboots just spiked the punch!
The party was just a business brunch before we busted through the door and ate all the ham sandwiches.
The party was full of sandal stench and incense reggae dancing.
We set the room on fire and flushed the extinguisher down the test tube toilet drain.
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