Peter Frampton
sits alone in his shriveled black home(hole?)
searching his gruesomely mutated memory for some kind of clue
as to the whereabouts of his penis
he sits on baby, i love your way
and slowly unbuttons his (something) trousers
Slowly, he pulls down his tattered flares
and holds a mirror underneath what once was
bounty, bitch, man (undecipherable)
(??)  the mirror with his heavily inverted resolution
fifteen years of (penile servitude??)
between the white (piper and rat heart????)
and the murderer, it is possible to see
(?  ?  ?  ?)
one martyr of an ancient land
execute this preacher's (???)
oooh baby, I Love Your Way!
he touches and he touches, he has nearly won
with a slightly sinking forefinger
the man can't get off!
and searches slowly across this train of thought
in search of a better hope