Song by Aesop Rock, artwork by Jeremy Fish, video by Dan Wolfe

Sharks in the dunk tank, vipers in the garden

Locusts stole the groceries out the local Farmer’s Market

All God’s critters hold positions

Some are violent, some are victims

Each alive is an equal and vital piston I support

So when the piranhas honor New York

My daddy long legs dangled and mangled for sport

And while I bring in every dink in the kingdom with open wings

It all boils down to them shit-soaked pigs

The pigs, the pigs, the dregs of what y’all aim for

The gluttonous muddy stomachs under the pudgy cakehole

Two-track braniac using the food and payroll

To chew up and consume every cookie, crumb, and peso

And place a cloven hoof on the lucrative when convenient

As the bourbon-odor smokers’ coughs smolder off the Cohiba

If Noah had the benefit of hindsight on his ship

He could’ve snatched two unicorns and left behind the motherfucking…

Pigs!

God damn… pigs!

Potbelly… pigs!

Punch-drunk… pigs!

Take money, money… pigs!

Loudmouth… pigs!

Wide load… pigs!

Let’s make a deal…

When all the wolves in woolly wigs

Have huffed, and puffed, and blew the bricks

The skulls of Brooklyn’s cruelest pigs

Will rain on Fulton’s newest kicks

As mulish swine of all surrounding counties sniff the gruesomeness

We pass around the pineapples and pull the pins in unison

I will gladly feed you to the breed who wants you sacrificed

No pagan or sacrilege, just bacon for scavengers

I will gladly seat you with the chickens, not the passengers

Hopefully the crack in his armor spreads to his avarice

Never that, Wilburs multiply quicker than triples

And hunt their truffles in fistfuls, but it was all bells and whistles

Bougie this and Bougie that…

War pig or pussy cat…

Glitzy to the pork ribs, had to gold-leaf the booby traps

Powder-pink, double-breasted, mess of mud and money

Waddle off the fire to make his stubborn tummy wroggle

And while I don’t really know the working details of your tribes

I know that that’s one ugly fucking tie

Asshole… pigs!

God damn… pigs!

Potbelly… pigs!

Punch-drunk… pigs!

Take money, money… pigs!

Loudmouth… pigs!

Wide load… pigs!

Let’s make a deal…

Apple in his mouth, Maraschino eyes

Party like the butcher boy’s cleaver is alive

I mosey into sixteen hours of smoke in the misty winter

To see the county fair’s blue ribbon winner as dinner

Then dance until the sun has kissed your blisters in the morning

As the misery was dormant and digging in crispy portions

Corporates fund, allure ’em, and they whore ’em

Or does he whore to corporates to expand the more important forums for ’em?

Push the mortar pestle past the ordinary orchard

When the frilly border’s faded is the product mine or yours, pig?

Mine, plus I toss a token where I go:

Directly to the worms who shovel shit and yellow snow

This little piggy went to the market with a target

And will subsequently know the armor-piercing forks of farmers

Final words for the finer birds taking notes:

I dig a chicken pig tills, “That’s all Folks! ”

Pigs!

God damn… pigs!

Potbelly… pigs!

Punch-drunk… pigs!

Take money, money… pigs!

Loudmouth… pigs!

Wide load… pigs!

Let’s make a deal…