Carlos the Jackal

Several were shot to hell, brought through the back door, they sat down and plucked out their eyes.

Shut up and bring me the head of the Spaniard on acid who stole every filling of gold that they dropped in my teeth,

Notice how much she keeps tabs on the past-

-six miles, we've seen no signs of life,

She laughed and stuck her gum

Against the side of my thumb.

On the gearstick, passion is measured in Kelvin.

You and your Icelandic ancestors' eyes.

Too much exposure is likely to rip you from

laurels that no one deserved,

Least of all, you and your feeble desire for a million admirers who dote on dead and their corpulent filth.

Notice how much she keeps tabs on the past.

Oh, my traveling days cut short by the grave,

Dismantled by fear and Japanese trains that fly through the air,

And land on the hoods of Indian rickshaws,

Their motors dissolved by all of the salt,

That's gathered in Texas, where Portuguese widows

Eat catfish and curse us,

American fruitcake she left on the doorstep,

So foreigners hate us.