(bumbumbumbum. bumbumbumbum. bada bada ba baaaaaaaaaaaa……..)

The name’s Marco, niceta meetya

grab a chair and grab some pizza

I’m afraid we can’t releaseya

til your phlegm is flim-flammed foam.

While the pepperoni’s gleaming,

oh, your kiddies will be screaming

“Can we (coughcough, coughcough) have some more-eeeeeeee…. YUM!”

(YES! YES!)

It’s MARCO’S–

PIZZA–

AND SANATORRRRRRRRRRIUM!!!!!!

 

America, have you ever had that same old dream

(tell us again, Marco, yes, we all have)

where your ribcage is flayed wide open and you can

see that your lungs have been replaced with these

weird little vaguely oblate spheroids, you know nothing

of entomology but cannot help but conflate them with

cockroach eggs, oh poor old conflated inflators, this

is you, America, this is the whole world in your oozing

granulomas, breathe in, see if you can flatten the whole

thing on your little finger and twirl it around into a frisbee

that will rise like the moon in the oven

 

…AND IF YOU CAN’T

 

A pizza party can be fun

when you’re hawking up a lung

my commercial’s over… we don’t wanna bore-eeeeeeeee ’em!

(THAT’S ALL FOLKS!)

It’s MARCO’S–

PIZZA–

AND SANATORRRRRRRRRRIUM!!!!!!

 

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