Garage Rock Prufrock



Listen, brothers, follow me

And we’ll carve our surname before the sea

So that Someone may express a desire

To support this broke southwestern band

For at the start we lost a hand

And my last four fingers will draw some swirls

So that in the sand will rest our girls

Like the groupie who made me cry and budge

Before I could breathe her hair like vanilla fudge

The drummer called her Miss Mudshark of May

I was offended, and I scowled at Ray
How can a pauper treat an heiress that way?


I want to break her platinum locks

I wish she’d tour with the Brothers Fawkes.


The drummer used to play so mad

That the schoolboys would insult his dad

Because nobody complimented his gift

He feels that Someone owes him a lift

And that his drumming skills are ahead of his date

When they’re merely parallel to the ones he hates

He equals Bonzo, but they never cross

Perhaps when he dies, fans will cut the moss

As the drummer world mourns another boss.


Will I, too, donate my brain to the Times?

Will I, too, die playing tag with my ego?

What did my men think of the songs?

And did they too share wonderful times

With that washed-out pixie-type schmoe?

God, keep us from achieving too much

Someone says that we’ll always stay small

But the drummer wants to lend his left hand

To the corporate capital cause

And the bassist just wants to play “Jaws”

Or he’ll knife us and break up the band

So I carve our endgame on the sand

And go looking for the girl of my heart.


I want to break her platinum locks

I wish she’d tour with Guyfather Fawkes.




Lion cub w/ dirty doors

Cries at visionary whores

Had some fame, now he’s lost it

Loved some fortune, Mother tossed it

Wailing in a mental cell

Seems he’s never doing well


But now he’s staring at the street

Preaching on the price of meat

As he licks raw chicken feet

A monger’s daughter helped him dance

But even that won’t break his trance

He’s pounding on the winter floor

Hoping God will cleanse his door


And would you know it?

God shoots up, tied and bound

And limps down to the Earthling pound

Whereupon God steals a book

This will teach God how to cook

Another of those gourmet minerals

And outside the bookstore, God meets the cub

God does not greet the cub


The cub greets God, rather addled

“Can ya help me?  I’m caught in a jam

It’s all I’ve ever experienced” etc.

But through all fools God has paddled

“Take this junk, shit’ll fix your doors

There will be no more squeaking this week”


God administers each plant and rock

But none of these will pick the lock

“Get yr act together, you’re wasting breath

I won’t take yr pity when I cause yr death”


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