this is the song of a dadaistwho had dada in his hearthe tore his motor aparthe had dada in his heartthe elevator lugged a kinghe was a lumpy frail machinehe cut his right arm to the bonesent it to the pope in romethat’s why laterthe elevatorhad no more dada in its hearteat your chocolatewash your braindadadadagulp some is the song of a bicyclistwho loved dada from the startshe therefore was a dadaistlike all with dada in their heartbut her husband on new year’s daylearned everything & in a crisissent to the vatican right awaytheir two bodies in two suitcasesnor the bicyclistnor the manwas ever happy or sad againdrink some bird’s milkwash your sweetsdadadadaeat your meat
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