This is a scary motel where mad mom made with male genitals
’cause he’s repressed he gets she-dressed—his manliness ephemeral
Where he’s she-cached, the lair’s tree-stashed—the effect is arboreal
The bath is white and shiny bright—the effect is marmoreal

The boggy back has bodies stacked—a miasmal memorial
When “mom” attacks, she whacks and hacks—on her id not censorial
Some folks nearby had loved ones die—as always, that is rotten news
And they don’t know where the dead go—friends in the fens with rotten ooze

That fens is dense with friends who’re sent to their rest in the rotten ooze

If she goes Norm—libido storm: he leers and peers at gals with lust
He’d love to stuff these “birds” in muff, but avian stuffed pals is trussed
In short, he’s mater when he’s full of sensual intentions—pulls
Out her frocks from the balls for moths. . .divest of balls thus vestmental

Her frocks are stocked in balls for moths until transference vestmental

Then Marion is carryin’ her case into this lair o’ shocks
And Norm is just lured by her bust as he gawks at her pair o’ knock[er]s
So she signs in—a pseudonym; then they gab—she looks fabulous.
They have a bite; she says, “Good night.” Then he’s spiked by a stab o’ lust

Because his eyes were on the prize, agog he would squint optically
His tales of life had not been rife with words; he’d talked synoptically
From the parlor he sees pallor through the peephole—girl skin galore
He’s not pendant—she’s ascendant; he’s off to don her pinafore

When thus up done, to cabin 1 he comes; then mom runs in the door

He looks a fright, a frightening sight when dolled up in mom’s uniform
When in she stage, he’s seized by rage and unassuaged. . .not truly Norm
In short, he’s mater when he’s full of sensual intentions—pulls
The curtain back and starts to hack; the red shed transcends menstrual

When he’s not man it seems the transference transcends transsexual

It’s pretty clear that Norm is nearly all the time unravelin’
Should be straited and sedated after magistrate’s gavelin’
But till that day there comes his way a dick, and Norm’s a wary cat
The dick’s a victim: sick “chick” pricked ’im—with slit vixens, where he’s at.

Got bad habits; with drab habit, looks like he’s from a nunnery
Ain’t from Phillie, p’rade place, still he ain’t ’fraid to stage a mummery*
He likes the knife to take a life; the chump’s no chum of gunnery
He cleans the room where’s the girl’s doom was sealed—one flush with plumbery

It’s spic and span as is the plan; there’s no trace of a splatter spree
Spurred by the urge to first her-merge, then surge—go on a mater spree
He might not kill if he could fill the rooms and charge a fatter fee
What’s in his mind? A psych will find out where might his gray matter be

He’s no more guy; won’t flick the fly sits on his wrist contentedly
Completely sick, he’s now all chick; had plied his shtik dementedly
In short his matter’s geared toward mater, and he’s not penitential
And now his lair’s not motel—in the madhouse he’s residential

So psycho he, that she might be MATERial presidential


*The Mummers Parade is held in Philadelphia every New Year’s Day