I got a punk grey hound; he runs real fast.
And when he's in a race kid, he never comes last.
He's got copper balls.
His name is lavender.
I circled off his fucking birthday on the calendar.
I leave it hanging by his leash beside the bannister.
In the pet shop i only deal with the manager.
And i buy his food in a big, metal canister.
The manager is sound and his first name is Alistair.
Lavender, I know you'd never bite me or scratch your ass up on the carpet just to wrile or spite me.
Your hairy balls, your slender jaw.
If you were the pope, they'd call you pope John Paws.
When i have you over, i take you on long walks.
The monkey says 'ooh' and the seagull squarks.
I don't give a fuck when the neighbours talk.
I just talk about your figure and your greyhound walk.
The greyhound shuffle is not just a dance kids.
It's a state of unrest.
When you feel so inspired by this performance in the tail en of Panama.
That you write a letter to Brendan Glacey everyday for 6 months.
When the police call to your door.
Talking about shoplifting and Cotton sheaves.
Thats the grey hound shuffle.
When your best friend that you know all of your life. One day turns around and ask you to blow cocaine up his ass with a straw.
Thats the greyhound shuffle
The greyhound shuffle is not the butter on your toast.
The greyhound shuffle is not your new shoes.
The greyhound shuffle is not the look of endearment in your mothers eyes.
The greyhound shuffle is not 'LOL' 'OMG' or 'ROFL'.
The Greyhound shuttle is not for sale.