The Ballad of Slade Killgun

They called him Slade,

Slade Killgun.

He truly was an evil S.O.B.

Slade, Slade Killgun.

A psycho-killer out of Western history.

First Slade would shoot you,

Then he’d cut you.

Yeee-hawww!

And string your guts for all the world to see.

Oh, he was evil and inhuman,

A psycho-killer out of Western history.

But folks all loved him

‘Cause they were greedy.

And Slade’s exploits

Gave this town publicity.

Yep, thanks to Slade, each hotel were filled to bursting

With Texas Rangers who wore a badge like me.

Not to mention bounty hunter scumbags,

Dime novelist scribblers,

And crazy whores

Who dreamed of death in agony.

All them folks, good, bad and ugly,

Spent their coin

With goddamn liberality.

Slade was your pal …

His knife made money!

What’s a body here or there?

Ain’t nothing free.

You folks all loved him

‘Cause you were greedy.

And Slade’s exploits

Gave your town publicity.

Then, one fine day, old Slade commenced to riding

And cracked his neck on a branch from a rotten tree.

Kee-rack!

A certain Sherriff found him there a-hanging

And told the Mayor …

“Let’s keep this shit twixt you and me.”

You two ‘suckers buried Slade but kept it quiet.

And kept on killing.

So the tourists wouldn’t flee.

You’d hack up victims

Then count the profits.

This shit went on for years

I’m sad to say.

Your whole damn town

Knew what the deal was.

Now I do, too.

Starting now

You boys had best commence to pray.

Seems old Slade blew up the dam

Back up the river.

And your whole goddamn town

Got washed away.

Slade’s final act of sick revenge, boys

At least that’s what

Them papers gonna say.

They called him Slade,

Slade Killgun.

He truly was an evil S.O.B.

He couldn’t help it; but you folks could.

I’m gonna keep you out of Western history.

Silence of the Lambs

(to the tune of the Doors' "Riders of the Storm")

His name is Lecter don't you know
He will kill you nice and slow
If you see this man today
He will chew your face away
Silence of lambs

Redneck Baudelaire

by Jethro Floyd Stillwater III

Now that Jesse Helms is making sure that art cleans up its act, several arts grants have gone to some "down home" types to counteract the influence of New York-based, liberal, secular, humanist, bleeding heart, commie-pinko highbrows. Recently, a major grant was issued to Jethro Floyd Stillwater III of the Alabama Institute of Animal Husbandry to support his ongoing translation of 19th-century French poet Charles Baudelaire. Wha? magazine is pleased as punch to include an example of Stillwater's work. Here is his translation of Baudelaire's poem, Spleen.

Bad Liver
Pluvus got mad at the whole town
Cause his son urinated
On a big floating verse of cold stamps
And all over them spooks
Just a rotting in the cemetary

My cat gits a pint outta my pickup
Getting all agitated like a repo man
With a corpse in his Ford Galaxy
Just a howling like a gouty old poet
A crying like one of them buried spooks

The bourbon makes me cry
And I hear granny's clock a tickin'
But that there depends
On the joy you get
From selling perfume

My old dead home is like one of them dogs a foaming
That I gotta take to Doc Jenkins
For that heartworm treatment
Turns out he had rabies and I had to put him down
Like Old Yeller
Next thing you know, this dame I met
Run off with "Beau" the butler
Cause a fancy lady
Will stab you in the back every time

ORIGINAL TEXT:

Spleen
Pluviôse, irrité contre la ville entière,
De son urne à grands flots verse un froid ténébreux
Aux pâles habitants du voisin cimetière
Et la mortalité sur les faubourgs brumeux.

Mon chat sur le carreau cherchant une litière
Agite sans repos son corps maigre et galeux;
L’âme d’un vieux poète erre dans la gouttière
Avec la triste voix d’un fantôme frileux.

Le bourdon se lamente, et la bûche enfumée
Accompagne en fausset la pendule enrhumée,
Cependant qu’en un jeu plein de sales parfums,

Héritage fatal d’une vieille hydropique,
Le beau valet de coeur et la dame de pique
Causent sinistrement de leurs amours défunts.

Originally published in the Sarasota Arts Review.

Close to You Parody

Why do buzzards shriek away in fear
Every time you are near?
Just like me, they can't stand to be
Close to you

Why do black holes open in the sky
Every time you walk by?
Just like me, they can't stand to be
Close to you

On the day that you were born
The demons got together
And decided to create a monster true
So they sprinkled brimstone in your hair
A jolt of hellfire
In your eyes of grue
And starlight in your eyes of blue

That is why all the girls in town
Run like hell, when you're around
Just like me, they can't stand to be
Close to you

FDA Warning

WARNING: SEX CAN LEAD TO RELATIONSHIPS AND, IN EXTREME CASES, MARRIAGE.