Lyrics:

Another missing number in the jungle
turned up with nothing but a loin cloth
to protect your tender penis from what's danger and the wildlife
Your human nose making the least of all scent
Going dumb to the dynamics of clean air,
bare feets cringing across the unkept forest floor

Not ten minutes ago, you had been licking brass knuckles and soaking up satelite feed
beneath beating flash bulb blare, being crowned this year's champi'o'king
Looking good bad after a beautiful thing
Big winner of the only and annual Serious Serious Guts Competition
(sponsored in part by the pain reliever people and the heads of music television)
Yes, you and ten other tough guys slit smiles across your then perfectly sturdy stomachs,
and spread your large intestines boldly out across a coated white poker table

The starter pistol barked, and each contestant commenced to carefully comb
their own eager entrails from behind the one-way wall of mirrored eyewear
Everyone a hopeful breathing heavy
sifting through their mortal coil with their finger tips,
for the most intimidating lengths of well sculpted and primetime stomach links

Every so often, in the name of health,
an executioner capped usher struts about the gut covered table
misting everyone's exposed and heaving organs
with a modified and fancy water pistol
In all the... all in the name of health

As always, this years celebrity judges are only of the most incredible persuasion
Charles Bronson's angry and gay only daughter, icecubed back from when he was hard
and a framed 8x10 of Joe Namath's kneecaps

And because you won, they stitched up your open abdomen first
Gave you a nice rambo knife and some choice cigarettes
And cut you loose in the ozarks
The question being not if, but when, you will kill for your next meal

And besides after all you'd never gone missing before (never gone missing before) (x4)
Gone master. Drop the guts! (x3)

In one months time, they anticipate your turning up
in the lap of the Lincoln memorial
wearing the stripped and cured flesh of yet another white rapper
Lovers and mothers the last thing on your mind,
raw and reborn in the kill
As the red carpet goes wild
The vice magazine people serving up
a hard bucket of most happening blood
feeding a spit roast pig in your honor,
kissing the wind, calling you boss
Phantom hearts clinking half empty
in the leftover and once humored
still... still arrogant air