If I pleaded the fifth, could this be prevented?
My cynicism deserts me now. I called you "cute" and I meant it!
How could the depths of my soul form this perky jingle?
The cruel logic of algebra provides an answer that's single.

Down the halls, ether squalls songs of welcome:
Come in! Break fast, 'cause now you're home at last
in the palace made of corn.
I'm crowned today king of all I survey
in the palace made of corn.

Of course your cardiogram registers so faintly,
when every word to beguile your heart emerges ever so quaintly.
In light of verses like these, who'd not be forlorn?
Even the semen that stains my dreams dries to the color of corn.

Can't you hear? Chanticleer crows his welcome.
Come in! Break fast, 'cause now you're home at last
in the palace made of corn.
I'm crowned today king of all I survey
in the palace made of corn.

I gave up reading your mind. Could that prose be drier?
Besides I know how it all turns out: you yawn at me and retire.
If wanted dead or alive, sure I'd choose the latter -
but in the palace that's made of corn, I guess it just doesn't matter.

I detect, oh - winds of ectoplasmic welcome.
Come in! Break fast, 'cause now you're home at last
in the palace made of corn.
I'm crowned today king of all I survey
in the palace made of corn.