There you stand, then unplanned:
Slurp a taste and you fall.
Shit! you’re gone; my god! you’ve spawned
Creep who’s eight-foot tall.

Everywhere people stare
As you make your way
Through the streets and alleys
Where guys leer then pay.

Hey, you’ve become Hyde, who loves to play,
J., you’ve become Hyde, who loves to flay.

Late at night, you cause fright
In tarts who drink gin.
Meeting them, beating them
In the state you’re in.

Down is she. . .slaying spree.
Luck runs out today
Gathered round, friends astound-
ed by fear, they say:

Hey, you’d become Hyde, a lug not J.
Hey, you become dying, luckless J.

[flute dirge]