My belly is an oven
And I'm cooking cancer pie
Blackening my organs
From the in- to the outside.
The crust is rising steadily
And pressing against my abs
The pie soon will be finished
According to my labs.
My strength is ebbing daily
My vision's blurry, too,
Before too long I do believe
I shall be turning blue.
And when my lungs stop moving
And I'm resting on a slab
A knife hovering above me
As the coroner blabs
My soul it will be sailing
Way up above the clouds
And when I knock on heaven's door
I'll be knocking very loud.
When the pie is opened
And my guts begin to sing
I'll be grating on the ass
Of heaven's all gracious king.'
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