Sylvan hell, sylvan hell.
I stick to time in the city.
The sticks stink; here I drink,
Attend symphonies and plays.
City time rocks; sylvan time sucks:
nothing around for miles.
There’s no there there, as [Gertrude] Stein wrote with quipness.
Time’s slow passing ’d have me gassing
myself in CO style.
Then you could lay me out on a bier

Sylvan hell, sylvan hell.
I stick with mine in the city.
The sticks stink; I would drink,
if I lived there, every day.

Incest highlight of a sticks night:
sis and sibling between
the sheets, with consanguineal pleasure.
Mom and son hump; dad does gram-pump:
It’s a family lay.
And grandpa’s outside f*cking a deer.

Sylvan hell (it’s boredom without pause),
sylvan hell (urban life is my cause).
I’m fixed and fine in the city.
That’s my thing (ain’t goin’ anywhere);
please don’t bring me to the open air—
it’s here that I’m gonna stay.

City clime rocks, sylvan clime—not (sylvan hell)…
measure in blocks not miles (city’s swell!).
I am wary of any silvanness
(I am just fine with the city).
There’s a face pace…unsurpassed place (here it swings).
I would never go miles (not take wing).
The boondocks just do not make my day.