My Cat's Name Is Stinky Lyrics

My cats name is stinky, sometimes I look in his little eyes and I know what he's thinking, golden pools over nose that's pink he's all fluffy and he's white and orange, like a mystical dreamsicle used to bruise and confuse you and fight in wars, I found him on the street, blood on his arms, blood on his teeth, appears harmless but he's way more battle hardened than me, it makes me wonder was he one to run around in a past life in coliseums slaying gladiators with Jack knives, Iranian seik with 10 year old Greek and black wives, 37 virgins wed and not a single tan line, so how'd he come be here at the feet of my bed? Did he miss his opportunity for jihadist death? Or did he make it on the plane, on the day, 9/11, and then was sent to my house instead of on to heaven, cause if Allah was mad I think he'd want to do the baddest, and stinkys on a mattress in between a couple faggots being constantly reminded that neither of us are virgins, for psychological torture that's one of the better versions, so he struggles and he woes when I kiss his little nose, and I tickle on his belly and I touch his little toes, without the proper pop of his vernacular and prose well he's just cuter than a button and more harmless than a rose.

My cats fuckin dumb, wander around the house with no aim and no claim of being too evolved to sit and suck his thumb, after all he's just a baby and at that the most felinest, but every now and then I think he's secretly a scientist, the intensity with which he studies specks on the floor can be rivaled only by the bloody necks from a war Fought with only gigli saws and garrotte wires, over drawbridge doors and moats and spires, now I'm calling every Last fucking nasa employee, anyone that answers tell them meet me in the foyer, I got a couple questions bout a cat that's orange and gay, and stinky is his name, number 1: what the heck does my cat even do here? Number 2: what's the guise of disguise you use to get him through here? Number 3: where'd he get the root beer? And last of all, at what point did he emerge as some ethereal soothseer?

I got a couple other cats too, but stinky doesn't like em similarly to how I don't like you, and I got a sneaking suspicion the seik is leaking his piss in the sink and seeking perdition on freaks and the superstitious, it's too religious, and not a single wise man, alls I got is 2 bitches and 1 fit for the Heisman, surprise man! This cat is not a cat at all, he's an Aztec warrior slinging skulls in a catapult, a Mayan priest finding peace and peyote, sipping faster than a grandmamushka whipping up perogi singing sillier Sinatra songs stuck inside her skull, slipping slowly from the undertow out to the tidal pull, sniffling sherm delivering three sermons minutes before a crocodile hunting expedition with Steve Irwin, crikey mate, this cats steaming like saunas and seeming like he can seamlessly be anything he wanna, a hurricane flinging fishermen fixed on the foal and faunas, tsunamis dropping upon us or belly flopping piranhas.

Where did you come from? I don't really care but I gotta ask cause I ain't never had happiness handed to me in lump sums, walked up in the pet clinic looking for death, walked up out now with a new best friend right in the next minute, so why'd you pick me? Put me in the know or put a sign that just says "kick me" if we ain't a kindred soul, or perhaps I'm thinking selfishly that I'm the inspiration for some type of cosmic retrograde that oh-so-gently places everything right in its proper place, from butterflies to rocks in space to cats in violinists lives and snowflakes on a daschunds face sending ripples through his fur into the fabric that connects all things both live and dead to springs inside my mattress, or perhaps you shacked up with a Turkish gyspy in the basque region of Spain or a van next to the dead sea and observed their family rituals of ancient mysticism harboring subconscious plans of causing future cysts and schisms, no matter the truth behind your origins, the situation now is I find hairs of whites and oranges that cling to every article I own of black and purple, which is every article I own, I'm practically infertile, or at least I may as well be to the normal straights and queers, and any-fucking-body else who doesn't have their septum pierced and at least seventeen tattoos covering both their arms and a grip of mental, physical, and emotional scars, but if I have to entertain I have a secret weapon, an ace that's hiding up my sleeve, a universal wingman, a maitre'd for wayward woes, a patron Saint for anxious souls, a harbinger of healing for us weirdos that were labeled gross by all of the McCool kids who were born labeled as counts by no governing force other than their parents bank accounts, the skinny kids who tip and fall and blow away with a light breeze but are held down by their gold chains and the newest damn pair of nikes, but I got a friend who doesn't know how to think he moves gracefully as a skater who's winning gold in the rink he's currently writing a thesis but doesn't have any ink he's cooler than you and perpetually winking, my cats name is stinky.