I met her there for lunch, up above SoHo
Where we ate and drank and then went to see "Coca-Cola,"
Warhol's "Coca-Cola."
For lunch I had Coke, condensed soup from a can:
It was Campbell's; I spilled it all over my stringy bola,
B-O-L-A, bola, bo-bo-bo bola.

Well I'm not the world's most philistine guy,
But I just did not like the jagged lines of Kline
In the MOMA,
M-O-M-A, MOMA.
I guess I'm dumb, but I can't understand
Why Picasso's woman kinda looks like a man
Like the Mona
L-I-S-A Lisa, Mo-Mo-Mo-Mo Mona.

Well, I liked Man Ray's use of dark/light--
"Chiaroscuro" it is called, right?
But then I gaffed and pronounced Klee like "kley,"
She said, "Simple boy, then it would be spelled 'Klie'."

Well I'm not the world's most Germanic guy
The three genders cross my eyes
Spanish, too's hell--¿it is lo, la,
Lo, la, lo, la lo la, lo, la, lo, la, lo la?

She said, "Putz, it's 'Klay'; you are such a boor!"
I yelled, "You're a whore!" then went down on bent knees
'cause her boot hurt my teamed testes.

She turned away and started to sashay,
Leaving me prostrate, with sore prostate
In my soma,
So-so-so-so soma.
Girl will beat boy and boy will be curled
Fetally as before he met the world
Still in mama,
Who's AKA "momma,"
One "m" less than MOMA.

Well they scraped me up off the MOMA's floor,
Then rushed me off, sent me through the ICU door.
Doctor frowned as he checked my brain scan;
He said, "Simple boy's gonna need a bedpan."

I'm lost to the world, like a mannequin man;
I don't know where I am, and so with magnets they scan. . .
In a coma,
C-O-M-A, coma, co-co-co-co coma.

Coma, with somnolent soma. . .
No "D'oh!" word like Homer.
Crone nurse unnerved by the boner
Growing much too overt.
Moaner, a comatose groaner,
In cauchemar I bone 'er.