Eggs won’t stick on my magic frying pans

Spots won’t grow on my wonder-creamed hands

To my tactics Samaria is blinded by my spell

I’ve even charmed myself from knowing how I sell

Calm down, Philip, you needn’t curse my deed

Just turn me down like advertisements you don’t want to read

My television never said the spirit wouldn’t sell

The hands that do the magic carry money just as well

Though you despise my offer, I want that power still

What money cannot purchase, perhaps my patience will

May I make more vulgar offers while I’m tagging along?

Or must I become someone else before I can belong?