I was bung outta dung.
I was bunged in.
I didn’t know where to crap I was
gonna get any more dung.
I checked inside my wallet and
nope, not a turd, not so much
as a drop of piss.
I was bung outta dung,
I was bunged in.
I knew there was a lotta dung downtown.
I could smell it. All that dung rolled inside
paper assholes, crammed inside cash registers,
bung up in the banks,
bunged sky high to the lid of the First National Bank Tower.
I tried bunging my way onto a bus,
but nope, no soap,
the driver slammed the door in my nose
because I didn’t have so much as a drop of piss.
So I hitchhiked and it rained
and I got downtown a little later than I had hoped,
but Lord! the stench of dung was overpowering!
Bunged-out winos crumpled to the sidewalk
like men made of turd. Businessmen shiny as piss
walked by and
grinned at themselves in shop windows across the street.
I was sickened… there was nothing else to do:
I entered a bank and shot the teller and stuffed my jeans
with clean green dung.
Easy as pie. One, two, three. I
ran out filthy with dung, and almost made it
to the new car I was about to buy,
when Bung! Bung! Bung!
the cops shot my ass off.
Willie Smith
aiurea press 