wearing patterned oven mitts and hard, 

metal hats that we sucked from your cupboards

with our light beams. Come feel our sticky,

webbed fingers. You know you want to.

We want to make love to you, 

grow all kinds of gooey knobs 

and holes for you on our blue skin. 

Your smelly creases turn us on.  

Come dance inside our Pimp Ship

and then we can discuss politics.  

Tell your president we have written him

a love song. It roughly translates: 

Chilly under the oven hat. 

Off the wall, over the rabbit. 

Lick that stomach, you sick fuck.

You and your hairballs.