He's a bad boy,
Adorable in corduroy,
With a gauged ear,
Lacking evident fear.
The secrets torn as I lay dying,
Just truth, promise me no lying,
Connect with my mind,
My hippie so kind.
Rays of sun come through the barn door,
And it's smokey, and I want some more,
The wraiths are beautiful, you say,
As we sat cross-legged in mounds of hay.
Drummers do it with rhythm you know,
He's as individual as a flake of fresh snow,
Electric tape and black ankle socks,
John Kogut fucking rocks.
He knows how to smoke that cigarette,
Blows shotguns that can make a girl wet,
But he's still just John boy with a charming smile,
To help a friend he'd walk on flypaper over a mile.