Uh-oh, uh-oh! He’s gonna cleave chicks;
This guy’s meshugge and has gone too far.
He is frocked; the wig’s out. He is gonna wig out. . .
Thinks about love and starts to blow
(This clown is nuts).

He isn’t a beauty as he slinks in mom’s shoes--
She’s down in the cellar, you know.
He’s no run-of-the mill murderer; it’s no thrill-kill;
It’s instilled by endless drone
That is trilled by kvetching in this schizo fella. . .
Awful mother, the controlling crone.

Loathsome crone--she says, “Guy, slice, chop ’em!”
So says mother.
So alone--maybe he’d be less nuts with a brother.
Ropa’s* on. . .see, that’s he attired in lace
Of his mother, the controlling crone
(She has very bad ideas).

She is a freaky old lady. . .name is Norman, really;
She emboldens him, it seems.
She did away with poor old daddy;
Now she haunts her son’s dreams.

He has lost his mind, and she’s unkind--
A sure sign is: he’s like her clone.
The knife blows, blood flows, blanching--
“There’ll be no romancing!”
Scoffs his mother, the controlling crone.

Goad-him crone--she says, “Guy, slice, chop ’em!”
So says mother.
Slow-kid drone--maybe he’d be less nuts with a brother.
Rode-him crone. . .always puts him in his place
Does his mother, the controlling crone
(Frocked from goads, he is not beautiful).

She’s got him in a mean rage, loon guy, droopy
’cause she will not let him lay
A girl. She says, “Got put on a muumuu
And go screechin’ in there and slay!”
So he gets this yen that honey should die
As she showers in that room, alone.
Mater keeps gettin’ bitchier,
Made up, he’s gettin’ twitchier,
Thanks to mother, the controlling crone.

Morbid crone--she says, “Guy, slice, chop ’em!”
So says mother.
Grow-id zone--maybe not if mother hadn’t smothered.
Mortis’d crone, she has got a bone-dry face,
Does his mother, the controlling crone.

(Man once, he’s a she now.
Fat fly flits free while she’s smiling.)


*ropa: clothing