There Is No Prophet On The Moon:

there is no profit in an alien

there is no prophet on the moon

now I have stroked piano dark between the promise and the glare;

I have sunk beneath the sea-cloud

through the Waters of The Floyd

danced with devil and his prozac pill

at the cheese and chilli fayre;

there is no comfort in my landing

there is no doubt I can suppress

now I have poked through eyes of safety pin in my Mothers wedding dress;

I only crossdress on a Sunday

in the safety of my cell

it is only when my curtains swell

I realise I am no different from the rest;

I still wear my Fathers' corset to hide my pregnant gut

carrying tripod for the triplets in my Jeffry;

I have no questions to be answered

I have no answers to the clue

I only have a keychain in my kitchen

and a sneeze of Winters chill

giving oral to my turnip

as she paints my window seal

drinking blood of jesus

so gentle mild and meek

and even I would find it hard

to kiss her other cheek!

there is no money here to launder

just a bank notes' slot machine

taking pictures of my bathtime submarine;

I still wear my Fathers' corset to hide my pregnant gut

carrying tripod for the triplets in my Jeffry;