PERRY SMITH KANSAS KILLER 

http://www.last.fm/music/Grimes/+videos/+1-gUxCeVupemA

The planchette scoots across the ouija board—
As if skating back and forth over thin ice

Far down below spectral Kafkaesque Kansas—
The fucked-up Fly Over State down there

They told me never again to set foot again—
After my stint in the Sunflower State Prison
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But I fell in love with this handsome hoodlum—
Dick Hickock with his crooked cocky smile

Avalon caught it in his Garden City portrait—
The look of a high school jock star gone bad

Dick was your typical smooth con-artist—
Able to talk his way out of your last dollar bill
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He had plenty of time in our cell every night—
To whisper sweet nothings in my ear back then

I fell for him really bad with no turning back—
I was just a gimpy two-bit hood who bottomed

I was a backdoor man like I told Miss Capote—
Our long conversations behind prison bars
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Only Capote knew why I killed the Clutters—
It’s because Dick was gonna do the Clutter girl

Without any dough, no safe full of $20,000—
At least Dick was going to get his nut off

I flew into a jealous rage just like that—
Dick just a fickle whore who betrayed me
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He may have been my intense lover in prison—
But outside he was just cheap white trash

He a long history of going for young stuff—
The look on his twisted distorted crooked face

I couldn’t stand it thinking of him upstairs—
Fucking that Clutter girl in the darkness
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So I grabbed the shotgun and blew all their—
Fucking brains out one by one just like that

Dick Hickock was horrified & scared of me—
Scampering to get all the shotgun shells

Not wanting to leave any evidence of us—
At the Clutter murder scene in Holcomb
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A two-bit piece of cake simple robbery—
Botched, gone bad and getting even worse

We skipped down to Mexico living on nothing—
But hot checks and pawning everything

Then they caught us in Las Vegas later on—
Got us to squeal on each other like punks
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Miss Capote read about it in the NYTimes—
Weaseled money outta The New Yorker

He had a faggot’s nose for sex and murder—
He could smell a story in hokey Holcomb

Out there in the ignorant Kansas sticks—
Plus some criminal amour fou romance
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To add a little queer spice to the story—
Taking Harper Lee with him as his fag hag

Living in a Garden City motel forever—
Going thru a hellish Holcomb homicide trial

Schmoozing his way into the Big House—
Getting Perry Smith to tell his killer story
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Kissing Perry’s butchy biceps tattoos—
Giving the killer comforting fellatio kisses

Milking “In Cold Blood” slowly outta Perry—
Chapter by chapter, wad by runny wad

Until it was no longer a piece of fiction—
But as real as a nonfiction blowjob can be
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Nothing like the hot desperate taste—
Of a convicted killer waiting to be hanged

The same with Genet and his prison lovers—
Condemned to the slice of the guillotine 

Just like Marie Antoinette going spaz—
Beheaded during the French Inquisition
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But Kansas was much too goth & modest—
To permit such a flamboyant demise

Both Dick and Perry bound in chains—
Wrapped up tight with no wiggle-room

So that when that last heavy jerk—
Of the tight gallows rope finally came
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Nobody could see them sprain their necks—
And ejaculate painfully that one last time