Guts in Jars

I’ve got a load of guts in jars,
They’re what I’m all about.
The glass keeps all the guts in,
And keeps prying fingers out.
I really love my guts in jars,
And love my gut-jar shelf.
I’ll sometimes even talk to them,
When I’m all by myself.
I think about the people,
How they lived, and what they did,
And I’ll sometimes have a little cry
While fingering the lid.
When I get old and perish,
Please dissect my wrinkled arse,
And burn the skin and skeleton,
And store my guts in glass.