II. A Few Rumors Concerning Mr. Potato Head by Terrance Hayes Lyrics
Bet in his diary there are blueprints of his faces. Yep, and a little arrow
pointing to where his eyeball rolled from the page. Yep, and bounced
once on the floor. Bet a diamond glistens in the ear floating in the ma-
son jar on his desk. Bet his collar-bone is made of gold. Bet he's never heard of Mary Shelley -- Hell, bet he can only read sheet music! God-damn, Brother, Prince just changed his name! Doctors say latex is age-less. Doctors say the body is nothing but money. Bet his tongue quivers in a pillbox. Bet his tongue is shy, in debt, and depressed. Bet he sings: Praise be to Edison's lightbulb and the scalpel! Bet he sings: Praise be to the nursemaid who sells her womb! Bet he sings: Praise be to hyperrealism, hypodermics, John Merrick and the poise of man-nequins! Bet it'll be a closed casket in the end. And enough flowers to
cover Texas. And a dozen biographies in the first month! Yep, bet no
one finds the diary. Bet no one finds the face.
pointing to where his eyeball rolled from the page. Yep, and bounced
once on the floor. Bet a diamond glistens in the ear floating in the ma-
son jar on his desk. Bet his collar-bone is made of gold. Bet he's never heard of Mary Shelley -- Hell, bet he can only read sheet music! God-damn, Brother, Prince just changed his name! Doctors say latex is age-less. Doctors say the body is nothing but money. Bet his tongue quivers in a pillbox. Bet his tongue is shy, in debt, and depressed. Bet he sings: Praise be to Edison's lightbulb and the scalpel! Bet he sings: Praise be to the nursemaid who sells her womb! Bet he sings: Praise be to hyperrealism, hypodermics, John Merrick and the poise of man-nequins! Bet it'll be a closed casket in the end. And enough flowers to
cover Texas. And a dozen biographies in the first month! Yep, bet no
one finds the diary. Bet no one finds the face.