Lair of the Coprophagics

we will eat it with a smile,
scarf it down without guile,
we don't mind the funky smell...
if it's unhealthy, we can't tell.
it's the staple of our land,
from your colon to your hand,
food of winners.

in america,
what's for dinner, is what was for dinner.

it has magical effect,
to consume what you reject,
as when we self-debate,
our own opinions highly rate,
and when serenading one's own ears,
it's easier to fashion tears,
here's a peace for sinners.

in america
what's for dinner, is what's your dinner.

in prison camps of the mind,
it gets cold but you will find
that your ass serves as more than just a cook-pot.
Filled with your head it gets quite hot
and comfy, and then there's this, of course,
you save energy eating directly from the source,
yet you're still thinner.

in america,
what's for dinner is what's more dinner.

and when we can't produce our own,
because we're then just skin and bones,
the State will gladly give us shit,
no, we'll never starve for it.
we may have to wait in line,
but well-trained dogs rarely whine,
a whiner's not a winner,
and should die.

in america,
what's for dinner is last night's dinner.

in your jowls, the fruit of bowels,
trapped in your gut your sad soul howls,
we are creatures of the flesh and nothing more,
gobbling up what's down in store.