It is not for the sensitive.The sun's been stabbed and clatters down,Spattering its gold shit all around.Now the dying thing's gone to groundAnd I hear screams and other sounds.I think tonight I will cut the throatOf the Widow Shreve's billy goat.She can milk me prick and go to gloatThat she saw the prize hidden 'neath my coat.Then I will eat a fat priest's eyesAnd if me prick's still on the riseI will