Fryerstarter

Let me put you up on Bob's donuts

Controller of the warm deep fryer that charms cobras

Mostly it was aggravated ulcers over goat's legs

Will they go for maple, custard, buttermilk or wolfs bane?

Hm, late after your cinderella pulsate and crash I was rotating casts

Picture if you will a witching hour on week night in the trenches

Where paranoia dead-ends in a bright florescent heaven

With sprinkles

I know right yum

Whether tummy ache or fever

Keep the funnel cake I'm honey glaze in vitro

In the company of similar believers

Sleepless, who hear the walls breath and foam at the facial features

Now the yeast, a phoenix in the partially hydrogenated

Equal parts flower, faith, healing

Might replace your previously nominated jesus

But only if you privy to the following secret of all secrets

Shh, every night at 12 they would march out from the back

With a tray of raw dough for the pool of hot fat

Show up around 1 never get your god back

If you're just tuning in, walk into the light

I boil oil too, not for scarfing

For CCs of japanese innovation that screech into free parking

Purple heart and 2nd chin that beseech him to squeeze the carbs into the motherboard

You can chew the eucharist in cruller form

Locally a seedy danish underworld is bustling where jelly's not a celebrated it's a puppet string

Pluck, nose for canola

5 Cow stomachs like a mime with a rope going nowhere

Fast, right hand of god on my shoulder, crows feet swollen, dopey

Combing apple fritters over with folk of opposing cultures

Baby sitter cop thief reverend, body glitter, botched c-section, bronze teeth

Each progressively more sequestered

Yet if threatened will defend the rasin bread as codefendants

Some lose religion or view it as superstition

You can tell a friend if you are down to kill them

Shh, every night at 12 they would march out from the back

With a tray of raw dough for the pool of hot fat

Show up around 1 never get your god back

If you're just tuning in, walk into the light

The fat boys are back, foam fingers over open arms

To feverishly reclaim their stomachs from golden jars

And stagger through the pulse of the gulch on a builder's dividends

Hiding high behind his guilty powdered-sugar fingerprints

Seething eventide fever, sidewalk feeling a little dicey

I'm snake-eye straight to the cakes icing

Might, fortune-teller up your favorite paper tiger stripe

Great, grace invaders, the first-name basis patron haters

Who compromise the pilot lights and flavors

Silent night, holy night, invite the pious out the pagan

Midnight kitchen doors un-caging the enablers like butchers in bloody aprons

Can I get a fucking amen?

AMEN, hazelnut raiders of the lost, navigate consecutive pastries like stations of the cross

No name no dayjob

Know the folk where it virgin mary toast by the loaf

Thanks bob

Shh, every night at 12 they would march out from the back

With a tray of raw dough for the pool of hot fat

Show up around 1 never get your god back

If you're just tuning in, walk into the light