Absolutely Nothing

Without her flying tresses
 I would have, heretofore
 Had quite a hard time guessing
 From which way the wind blows
 Absolutely nothing should be thrown away
 On a desert island all of her must stay
 I wonder how I ever
 Survived without her cheeks
 That fed me two red apples
 On each day of the week
 Without her throat, my head
 Deprived of its pillow
 Would have no other bed
 Besides the dirty floor
 Without her solid carriage
 What would happen, who knows
 If I should lose my bearings
 And need a hand to hold?
 She has a thousand other
 Most precious attributes
 But on the stage, I'd rather
 Not show them all to you
 The charms of my love are
 Many, but the masses
 Must go somewhere else for
 Anatomy classes
 In fact, this is her weakness
 She loves her bones a lot
 She'd never acquiesce
 To be cut into parts
 She's not a little proud
 And also ticklish, quite
 And one must take the lot
 Or leave her all behind
 Absolutely nothing should be thrown away
 On a desert island all of her must stay
 When I was just a little lad
 My fear of swearing was so bad
 That even if I thought the word "shit"
 I never uttered it, But
 Now that I earn my daily wage
 Ranting and raving from the stage
 "Shit" never stays inside my head
 Instead it's said
 I'm the pornographer of the phonograph, sir
 The perverted son of the sing-along
 To titilate the balcony
 I spew all kinds of infamy
 Mouthfulls of raw and trashy French
 That don't make any sense, but
 When I'm back home under my roof
 I blame my soul with much reproof
 And cry "You twisted little elf
 Go fuck yourself"
 Every Sunday I'm in the booth
 Confessing all my words uncouth
 Giving the priest my solemn prayer
 To hide my derriere, but
 Fearing if I clean up my show
 I'll end up singing on skid row
 I'm back up on stage pretty fast
 Showing my ass
 My wife, to put it mildly
 Has a certain proclivity
 That makes her like to lay in the nude
 With just any old dude, But
 In all sincerity, how may
 I speak about this on the stage
 If I can't tell you that she's got
 Fire in her twat?
 Surely I'd gain much satisfaction
 Even a medal for my actions
 Singing with fervor of the love
 Reserved for God above, But
 My angel told me from her cloud
 "Singing of love is not allowed
 Unless that love describes the lore
 Of a filthy whore"
 And when I elegantly play
 For the boss of a cabaret
 Some pretty tune pulled from my vest
 It just leaves him depressed, And
 Holding back tears, he begs of me
 "If you sing flowers' majesty
 For pity's sake please let them grow
 In a bordello
 Every evening before I eat
 I sit out on my balcony
 Eyeing the gentle folks below
 In the setting sun's glow, But
 Don't ask me to compose a poem
 If it would upset you to know
 That I like watching every day
 Cunts on parade
 All the good souls with righteous hearts
 Are glad to know that when I depart
 Satan will make a shishkabob
 Of this foul-mouthed slob, But
 May the Lord in his omnipotence
 For whom words make no difference
 Admit into that shining tower
 On that somber hour
 Me, the pornographer of the phonograph, sir
 The perverted son of the sing-along