LOOSE, belly bursting over open trousers, navel hairy like a zombie's
bloated eye--having just gluttoned himself, at his Satanic Majesty's
request, on a beggar's banquet, was contemplating a bowel purge in order
to be capable of ingesting and imbibing more, but really would have much
preferred a little soothing music, like, say, Eric Burdon and the
Animals, when Satan burst in and said, "Yo! if you're the Prince of Pop
turn the Stones into bread!"
"Man, I can't live on bread alone . . . but on every bird who comes to suck my cock." At which point a yellow-feathered floozy came to sup at his lap.
Satan brought slick Mick to a deep valley, wherein resided all the lingams of the earth (the pulsing and the loving, the loose and the limpid), and shewed him all the various yonis (the veteran and virgin, the pink and the purple, the bare and the hairy, the blushing and the bloody, the rosy and the randy, the bleached and the yeasty, the sleeping and the spelunking, the engaged and the empty). "I'll give you all this pussy and the attendant glory. They belong to me (the clitoris a tag of captivity), and I bestow them as I please."
M: Damn, S'tan. Pretty 'pressive! (Come a little closer now.) I sing about my own thing / and place the wick 'bove everything. I wrote that. Middle school.
He took Mick to Sausalito, and put the wonder kid in the denizens of Muir Woods and said, "All right, somersault down this brambly path and let's see what happens. 'Cuz it is written, "A Rolling Stone gathers no moss," and "How does it feel?"
M: You mean ruin my cool cape? No way!
"Awright, how'd you like a guarantee you'll be grossing more bread and bagging a more beautiful bird in '96 just sitting on your shrivelled duff than you do shaking it all the time in '69?"
M: Ooo! Where do I sign?