| | first of all, to Damien Kulash: if your wifey doesn't work out, i would
happily step in and marry you and we could throw a dance party.
second of all, this was an assignment for writing class; i imitated Dylan's Tombstone Blues:
The
meaningful things have murdered themselves,
the hippied children lock themselves up in shelves,
and iconic fads have
overrun us into hells,
but our minds have no
real cause for upset.
Judas kisses
presidents and hands down a slave
to those of us who listen, embalming a shave,
giving clean-cuts to
hurricanes with nicotine waves
despite the need in
our throats to desert it.
Bush is in the
garbage,
he's lookin' for jewce.
Cheney's drinkin' amber,
he ain't gonna be of
use.
I'm on my stomach,
with a headstrong
fuse.
The sweet, tiny
hipsters in their concert brigade,
call out for their rock
stars to sequin their graves;
when Lancelot’s
guitar string snaps, they’ll violently say,
“My, my, these lyrics
destroy me like perfume.”
Soon, decisions give
birth to their slimy outcomes.
These beatniks
evolved, their pomade hiding the scum
of ten thousand
reasons to holster up a gun
for the
commander-and-chief in a green room.
Bush is in the
garbage,
he's lookin' for jewce.
Cheney's drinkin' amber,
he ain't gonna be of
use.
I'm on my stomach,
with a headstrong
fuse.
Colonel Mustard in
the drawin’ room, excusing himself,
puts the gun down, looks around town, screaming, “God, I need help!”
His victimizing
victim turns a command into a yelp,
“I did not know this
career path took courage.”
The victim was a nice
boy, from the richest country lane;
Midas as a father
made for little to complain.
So he stares at
Colonel Mustard, as if to lay the blame, and says,
”I’ve a dream; god will ring me for chit-chat.”
Bush is in the
garbage,
he's lookin' for jewce.
Cheney's drinkin' amber,
he ain't gonna be of
use.
I'm on my stomach,
with a headstrong
fuse.
At a tea party in
wonderland, our Laura’s benign,
cocaine tic-tacs go
to babies and whomever she can find.
Children poets kissed
her feet until she cringed back just in time
to tell them lovers
should not fear what hurts love.
A father’s love and
southern shove have set us in a trance.
“I can’t believe in a
god who don’t know how to dance,”
we say behind our
locked doors, as he pulls down his pants.
”My heart is broken and numbing’s a sure cure.”
Bush is in the
garbage,
he's lookin' for jewce.
Cheney's drinkin' amber,
he ain't gonna be of
use.
I'm on my stomach,
with a headstrong
fuse.
The arithmetic of falling
in love has been too much;
romantics turn to
cynics at the drop of a clutch,
and, dropping their
sad hearts, they won’t hold a grudge;
they’ll just slink
off into the alleys.
Romantic kids could
once rehearse a dance of their choice,
giving cold-cuts to
their babies and fattening the noise,
but the army’s talk
is worthwhile, as they snatch up little boys,
giving shaved heads
and bullets for Christmas.
Bush is in the
garbage,
he's lookin' for jewce.
Cheney's drinkin' amber,
he ain't gonna be of
use.
I'm on my stomach,
with a headstrong
fuse.
Where Bethesda and
Lennon gallivanted in the park,
nuns with
frappuccinos scribble nonsense in the dark,
as Jesus and his minstrels sell self-help books on a lark
to our abortions, our
mothers, and our dealers.
Now I hoped I could
leave you with something of weight,
that could help you,
sweet lover, avoid this harsh fate,
and seduce you, and
drug you, and cause you hate
for your fruitless,
idealist breathing.
Bush is in the
garbage,
he's lookin' for jewce.
Cheney's drinkin' amber,
he ain't gonna be of
use.
I'm on my stomach,
with
a headstrong fuse.
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