Write It Like You Stole It
Scratch, scratch, scratch, playing the record backwards
dead Paul is, Adoy, ahoy, Yoko, poco, loco,
John was dancing dirt, pursuing peace,
out of place today when everyone’s Marine
if not in real life in Walter Mitty, Twitty,
dead children leave the city, itty bitty,
marching like storm troopers in a storm,
the hail, the nails in Jaycees hands,
imagined strawberry fields like folding chairs.
But, at least, give peace a chance, wait a second
and then invade Iraq, Afghanistan, Aztlan,
give peace a chance, then blow it up.
The more Henry plays the record backwards,
the more that Paul won’t die, Dubai, one eye,
the Cyclops brought the cops
and all the cops could say was Paul’s not dead,
well, fine, obscured by the fruit bowl,
John wrote the songs we’re told and stole.