...Frank told me to reach for my Faith!
So I Built me a Church of Chickens.
Chickens Chickens Chickens
Squawking mother fucking chickens.
I heard that 40 years ago they fluttered down with eyes wide open like a wide open shutter. What a collection of fucking heroes. They were smoking cigars and chatting. Tripping the light fantatsic with Mr Frank Blues.
They told Frank all he needed to know.
And then, later, there was his son Theo. Tied to the microphone and squawking out the tequila mescal blues of the The Church of the Chicken a la Peyote.
He had a message. A message that resonates even today.
Get your hand off your genitalia and start praying motherfuckers!
In these times of trouble I always remember...
I like this one. Look it is blind but still spluttering out its tune. Like the rest of us. Why not pray to it? Fucking on the ball, a feathered fuckwit that floated down in my mescaline dreamtime. Smoking cigars and cracking cicada shells.
Just erase that fucking cross of it. Sometimes my followers got confused. As if that cunt Jesus offered anything but limp dicked persecution and ignorance. Fill it all in with feathers and stuffing. And we will float to the Heaven on High.