Tricky, tricky, Mr. America:
I've 'scaped your traps so far;
but 1 day you'll get me.

I show no fear,
I feign ignorance;
but I know what you're boiling up...
Tricky li'l devil, you...

I know what you're planning:
you won't just smash me with your invisible palm;
you'll do it nice & slow...
Nice & slow...
Like a fine stew.
Delicious.

Can you taste the spiciness o' my blood,
the tanginess o' my gizzards?
No...
No, you wouldn't, would you...
You wouldn't taste nothing at all,
wouldn't even notice my stew 'pon your plate.
That's the trouble with you:
you're always so busy;
You never have time to enjoy the screams o' your prey.
Now, what kind o' life is that?
Get out mo', Mr. America;
breathe some fresh air.
I like to do that oft,
when it won't get me in trouble.
There are lots o' things that will get me in trouble.
Since you're so free,
you never tell me what they are.
So I have to guess.
Sometimes I guess wrong.
But that's OK.
I like the mental stimulation.

But you, Mr. America:
you're 'bove getting in trouble.
So, why aren't you happier?

I know you won't read this.
So many wives & not 'nough time to listen to them.
'Sides, you wouldn't like what they have to say.
That's OK.
I'd like to say that you'll regret me when I'm gone;
but that would not be perfectly accurate.
So, please, don't finish that stew I made for you if you don't want it.
I did a bad job, anyway.
I'm always doing a bad job.
I even tried ripping a few pieces o' my flesh
& adding them as you like.
But I guess it wasn't...
No.
No, there's no use in laboring the issue.
Just shove it to the side.
Someone will pick it up eventually.
& if not, the flies will surely enjoy it.

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