I
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.
II
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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