She ain’t straight and has a crazy gait:
Offset’s my baby’s backbone.
Guess her karma was to suffer harm;
offset’s my baby’s backbone.

The structure’s wrong; the spine ain’t straight and long;
she’s bent over like a crone.
I ask why life ain’t fair—no reply—
God’s dead. If baby’s backbone
were like a wharf pile, I might walk the aisle
where the believers are blessed.
But I ain’t impressed by prelates who are dressed
in vestments that are freshly pressed.
(And I am depressed by prelates who undress
and shag altar boys post-caress.)

Once she tried chiropractic, near died…
ministrations made her moan.
His bad bends signaled it was the end
of quackery for backbone.

With much good money we part;
we sigh and depart
to find someone who’ll treat her right.
That’s because this guy don’t know shit from Shi’;
we need someone who can deal with her plight.

Enrolls in a trial for a new drug; while
she goes through it, she’s impressed
by results she gets and quickly forgets
the quack who had made her distressed.
She stands “high”; meaning of that word’s bi-…
best drug that she’s ever known.
No more bent is my honey; that gent
doctored my baby; I gobble baby’s
new nostrum, and off I’ve flown.