I'll get a home,
Moving hurricane-prone home--
I'm goin' mobile.
Well I'm gonna find a home
Made of beer-can-thin steel--
Goin' mobile.
It keeps movin'.

I can put it in the burbs
In a park where they are stowed,
All those mobiles.
Get it planted on some feet
That are made of blocks of concrete--
Hold my mobile,
Keep from movin'.

Out back the woods
Are really pretty;
There's some tall pine trees
Above my home,
Which is mobile.

Sounds like wind machine
Roaring through those trees
Near my mobile.
I hide under my bed
While high velocity shreds
My poor mobile.
Pieces movin'.

Pieces movin,
Winds 150.
This is provin',
When it's windy, spindly.

(Tornado toccata)

Then I dare seek restitution
From insurance man who gypped me.
Take an ablution--
Watch him and the underwriter stiff me.
They're most vile,
Most vile, most vile. . . .