One must belong to a certain subsubculture (not this one) for full appreciation, but I think parts of it are of more general interest:

The Rev. Lunar Goes to the Stone Spar

There I was, starring in the band, hoping for an all-night fairy buzz but prepared to droop myself into a stinker.

Forcing myself thru the betting swaddies, I received a pope by the gruel table from a bright-assed tit. He was hottish, and delightfully scary. He asked for a match, so of course I said "Your bug & my mutt" as I set wire to his feed. "Man your grinders!" he moused, "if you want a hair to bug. This might be your nooky light."

I bent over to wet his favorite gear, but it was climbing toes. The top-tanked tarbender, gnashing his ripple flings, had mucked up the pigs and was making a queen sleep with a saggy rope. With an encouraging band on my hut, I found myself whoring for the dead.