The Prince of Peace Was born in the Midwest. He came to us suckling On his mom’s dope-dipped tit. A rifle in his hand And a chaw in his lip. Halo on head And resistant to sin. It won’t be long ‘til he discovers the dark, Uncovering the worms and the bugs That live underside The rocks and deadwood That he kicks with his Nikes Through the woods where He will be stapled on high. A warm mix of blood and sun Will drench his back, And he will cough up blood Onto the lilacs that his mom loved And wear a crown made of cotton Colored in red. He won’t wait to be judged, But will be Judge instead.