The tiny ant leaves his tiny ant drops in the sand,
And makes his home inside a rusty watering can,
Occasionally going out to look for bread and jam.
He runs into a sparrow who hasn't eaten for a week,
And later, quite contented, the sparrow cleans his beak,
Failing to notice pussy cat has come out to take a leak.
Our cat partakes of dinner when a sodden kangaroo
Emerges from the undergrowth and asks to use the loo.
Kangaroos aren't usually dangerous, for that would never do.
My goodness, will you look at all the animals queuing on the stairs!
Look at the animals in the zoo; how would you like to be one?
They're waiting to use the lavatory and putting chewing gum in each other's hair.
Look at the animals, look at you; well how would you like to free one?
Good gracious, will you look at all the animals playing with their tools!
Look at the animals, look at you; well how would you like to queer one?
Flying from the chandeliers and treading in their elephantine stools.
Look at the animals, two by two; aren't you glad to be one?
This kangaroo's a lunatic and his pouch is very full
Of pussy cats and penguins who can't fly as a rule,
But then neither could the pussy cat: he never went to school.
The kangaroo gets nervous when confronted by the size
Of an elephant named Simon who is always telling lies;
He swears he wears green corduroys and can button up his fly.
Presently, a fatter Simon's indigestion fails.
He regurgitates the whole damn mess into an aluminum pail,
And the tiny ant scuttles back inside his watering can
Occasionally going out to look for bread and jam.
The tiger flashes sharpened teeth.
Bowler-hatted; summer briefs
Beneath his pinstriped skin.
To kill demands a business sense;
Economy moves non-residence
Approaching from down-wind.
Being a tiger means you laugh
Whenever lesser tigers have
To eat meat that's infected.
Being a tiger means your mate
When overfed will defecate
In places least expected.
Knowing a tiger means you must
Accept his promise of mutual trust
And offer him your throat.
Loving a tiger means you take
Second place to the cake you bake
And with undying servile obedience
keep the stiffly starched collar
of his conference shirt spotless
and remove daily the daubed bloody
evidence of his dastardly misdeeds
from the otherwise immaculate elegance
of his pinstripe tiger coat.
"Hello. This is `Law of the Bungle Part II'. By the way, I'm Martin
Barre; but sometimes I'm an owl, and my feathers are really smooth,
and when I feel romantic I like to dress up in men's clothing."
The master playwright
Urges you to play right/play wrong;
Life is long and every night's the first night.
The wardrobe mistress
Urges you to dress left/dress right;
What a mess when your underpants are too tight.
Who's on the stage door
To help you find the way in/way out?
It's not a sin to be knowing that you don't know.
When you breathe your last line
Will you make your exit stage left/stage right?
Well, you might decide while there's still time.
You have an angel on your shoulder
But you wear the old god's horns.
And you dance around the maypole
While the vicar makes a toast
To the pagan celebration
And extends an invitation to us all
So he can save us when we fall.
Who's your leading lady?
Will you help to get her off the bus? It's best
to pass the test before you get too lazy.
Strike up the orchestra.
Take your cues on the up-beat/Beat down
Anyone who says he doesn't like the sound.
Brain-storming, habit-forming, battle-warning weary winsome actor spewing spineless chilling lines--
The critics falling over to tell themselves he's boring
And really not an awful lot of fun.
Well who the hell can he be when he's never had V.D.,
And he doesn't even sit on toilet seats?
Court-jesting, never-resting--he must be very cunning
To assume an air of dignity
And bless us all
With his oratory prowess,
His lame-brained antics and his jumping in the air.
And every night his act's the same
And so it must be all a game of chess he's playing--
But you're wrong, Steve. You see, it's only solitaire.
Critic of the black and white
It's your first night.
The Passion Play gets in the way,
Spoils your insight.
Tell me how the baby's made,
How the lady's laid,
Why the old dogs howl with sadness.
The blue thing in the ball leaves naught but a bloody footprint on
the memory of last summer's trip to Europe
Did you buy a passport from the queen?
And your little sister's immaculate virginity wings away on the bony
shoulder of a young horse named George who stole surreptitiously
into her geography revision.
The examining body examined her body.
The editor lies screaming (begging in his working drink),
Questioning "Who is God's favorite rock star this week?"
And will the front page pay [take?] him?
In long years of ancient time, stood alone a friend of mine.
Reflected by the ever-burning sigh of a god who happened by.
And in the dawn, there came the song
Of some sweet lady singing in his ear.
Your god has gone, and from now on,
You'll have to learn to hate the things you fear.
We want to know, are we inside the womb?
Of passion plays, in thy righteousness consumed?
Or just in lush contentment of our souls?
And so began the age of man,
And they left his body in the sand.
Their glasses raised to a god on high,
Who smiled upon them from the sky.
So take the stage.
Spin down the ages.
Loose the passion.
Spill the rage upon your son
Who holds the gun up to your head.
The play's begun.
Then God, the director, smells a rat.
Pulls another rabbit from His hat.
Sniffs the air and He says "Well, that's that--I'm going."
Did you learn your lines today?
Well, there is no rehearsal.
The tickets have all been sold
For tomorrow's matinee.
There's a telegram from the writer,
But there is no rehearsal.
The electrician has been told
To make the spotlights brighter.
There is one seat in the circle--
Five hundred million in the stalls.
Simply everyone will be there,
But the safety curtain falls
When the bomb that's in the dressing room
Blows the windows from their frames.
And the prompter in his corner is sorry that he came.
There is one seat in the circle--
Five hundred million in the stalls.
Simply everyone will be there
But the safety curtain falls
When the bomb that's in the dressing room
Blows the windows from their frames.
And the prompter in his corner is sorry that he came.
When the bomb that's in the dressing room
Blows the windows from their frames.
And the prompter in his corner is sorry that he came.
Did you learn your lines today?
Well there is no rehearsal.
The interval will last until
The ice-cream lady melts away.
The twelve piece orchestra are here,
But there is no rehearsal.
The first violinist's hands are chilled--
He's gone deaf in both ears.
Well, the scenery is colorful,
But the paint is so damn thin.
You see the wall behind is crumbling,
And the stage door is bricked in.
But the audience keep arriving
'til they're standing in the wings.
And we take the final curtain call,
And the ceiling crashes in.
Would you like to see my lion
My friend Cecil is damp and smooth
A damp smooth sea lion
Yes, Cecil is a sea lion
(Cecil is a sea lion)
Cecil is a clever sea lion
Cecil sometimes swims
And often sits
(And balances multicolored striped balls?)
Yes, balances multicolored striped balls
Clever Cecil
(Cecil is a sea lion)
Cecil the sea lion is serene
He doesn't wear spectacles or a scarf
(No central heating or cement)
Well [But?] the whole ocean is Cecil's home
Come running. Go for overkill.
If you don't come now, I'll be over the hill, all right?
Tell me, "All right."
Got a sell-by date. Soon be out of stock.
Pop me in your trolley you can start my clock. Well, all right?
Tell me, "All right."
I could be on your shelf, could be the risk you take.
I'm a cup of hot coffee, I'm a piece of cake.
I'm the hot chicken in your superstore.
You can take me home if you can take some more, Well, all right?
Tell me, "All right."
I could be on your shelf, could be the bread you bake.
I can fill your larder, I'm a piece of cake.
Show me rosemary, I'll show her wild thyme.
See you at the checkout or on the credit line. Well, all right?
Tell me, "All right."
I'm your spicy filling, I'm your low-fat spread.
I'll be your smooth rubber, be your pencil lead, All right?
Tell me, "All right."
If you set me to simmer, if you grill my steak--
you can bowl me over, I'm a piece of cake.
I walked down that boulder road,
Through a child's eye saw places where I used to go.
Where I crawled barefoot with a fishing pole
to the rock that overlooked that steelhead hole
but it's true--silver river turning blue.
It was a small town in a smaller world.
Just a black dot on an old map with its edges curled.
Where they built their industries on the edge of town--
Leaching chemicals from underground
now it's true--that silver river turning blue.
Just got a late reaction. Face reality and stare it down.
Sometimes it's harder hanging on. Much easier to look around.
But I need that job.
Well, this place no city: we're just small players here.
Like a million other heroes drinking poor man's beer.
We know what's right. We're just living it wrong.
But there's no easy answer in the green man's song.
What do you do? When your river's turning Blue.
Tear it down in double quick time
To get the eighth truck shifted 'bout midnight
The locker rooms are empty but the [Strobo Tickers?][strobe boats?]
still spin with their pitching lights
And someone with a yellow pass
Gives out precise directions as to where and when
And here am I with a drumstick,
While young girls set to rendezvous, and be recognized again
Tomorrow is an off-day,
Be in Baltimore by Thursday is the only law.
There's a suite down at the hotel
Reserved for making merry with connecting doors.
The lighting man's already improvised a bar,
And printed invitations to the ball.
Off duty cops line corridors wearing Tull [two?] T-shirts proudly
on the band's [...] wall
Crew nights, no flashlights or folding knives,
Best boots and road suits and nine lives.
Feeling that it might be wrong to
Temporarily belong to the P.A. man [men?]
Some angel from the midwest is regretting being
Undressed with no suntan
His polaroid is snapping
The head carpenter is rapping on
The gates of dawn
Sitting lonely with a warm beer
The girl with dental braces wishes that she hadn't gone.
Crew nights, no bar fights or reader's wives
Thin walls and late [blade?] calls and nine lives.
[Ken Stitzel writes: Still no clue on the first line, but I think
"late calls" is definitely correct for the second line. It makes
sense from a stagehand terminology perspective. I know that it
sounds like there's a "b" sound in there, but I think it's just a
minor flaw in Ian's diction. (It's really tough to sing clearly,
especially in rock music.)]
Crew nights, no flashlights or folding knives,
Best boots and road suits and nine lives.
Young Gladys was a silky maiden
At thirteen, she was going strong, yeah.
Oh, Gladys.
Nicely filled out, fully laden,
But down below there was something wrong, yeah.
Oh, Gladys.
Nobody told her about the secrets
That ladies have to hide
Mom had no words to describe the things
That happened inside.
Need someone to help me,
I feel that there's a curse on me, oh.
Went down into the local disco,
For what used to be the one night, yeah,
Oh Gladys.
Felt a searching hand to frisk her,
Along the legs of the water line, yeah,
Oh Gladys.
Now Gladys knew she was in no condition
In no mood to play
I cracked a knee in her soft spot, nothing
Had got in her way.
I want no one to touch me,
I feel there's a curse on me, oh.
Directed down to the local drugstore
Got fixed up, now she's doing fine, yeah
Oh Gladys
Equipped with various kinds of apparatus
You know the feminine hygiene kind, yeah
Oh Gladys
Must have been a man to do these things
Who won her fall from grace
That day he programmed me [That lady programmed me?]
You should have seen the smile on his face
He said "You'll need someone to help you
When you feel like cursing me", oh.
She moves with machinery for the fancy sports car trade.
Part of the industrial process: she sees that they stay made.
She works from early A.M.. They work her to the bone.
When I call her in the evening, she's too tired to lift the phone.
Damned if I'll wait for her, and I'll be damned if I don't.
Damned if I only see that Rosa on the factory floor.
Signed on for the duration. They say she came from the East.
With her tool bag and her coveralls, to pay the rent at least.
She doesn't talk with workers on the rest of the line
and over in the canteen, she's alone most of the time.
Somewhere in her history is a lock without a key.
She doesn't trust the management--and she won't trust me.
We're two different animals. We live jungles apart.
She circles round her freedom and I circle round her heart.
A small cigar can change the world
I know, I've done it frequently at parties
Where I've won all the guests' attention
With my generosity and suave gentlemanly bearing
A little flat tin case is all you need
Breast-pocket conversation opener
And one of those ciggie lighters that look rather good
You can throw away when empty
Must be declared a great success
My small cigars all vanish within minutes
Excuse me, mine host, that I may visit
A nearby tobacconist
To replenish my supply of small cigars
And make the party swing again
I know my clothes seem shabby
And don't fit this Hampstead soiree
Where unread copies of Rolling Stone
Well-thumbed Playboys
Decorate the hi-fi stereo record shelves
If you ask me they're on their way
To upper-middle-class oblivion
The stupid twits, they roll their only
One cigarette between them
My small cigar's redundant now
In the haze of smoking pleasure
Call it a day
Get the hell away
Go down the cafe
For a cup of real tea
By the tube station, there's a drunk old fool
Who sells papers in the rush hour
I hand to him ten small cigars
He smiles, says, "Son, God bless you"
A small cigar
Has changed his world, my friend
A small cigar
Has changed the world again
One day he'll walk from out of this place.
You'll see a quiet determination on his face.
He'll toe no lines. Suffer no fools.
But he'll raise three cheers to the losing team
from the other school.
A little dedication. A little pair of daddy's shoes to fill.
Compleat education. One day he'll be a man of principle.
And the battle's on. And he'll play to win.
Feel the blue blood rushing quick beneath his skin.
And grim they stand. And hard they fall.
Harder still, when their backs are up against the wall.
Gonna get your attention. But he's carrying his cross
to the other hill.
With divine intervention, he can be a man of principle.
In the evening light, with a fair-ground girl--
he stops himself as his head begins to whirl.
And he walks her home. And there's a kiss goodbye.
She feels a chill as she looks him in the eye.
Well, there's a time and a place now
and it's not tonight she'll bend his will.
Slow realization--she's looking at a man of principle.
Hung from the highest station by his old school tie--
undressed to kill
He could be a real sensation. But he's a man of principle.
All right and honorable gentlemen
And lady, too
Will kindly try to restrain themselves
In derring-do
As verbal hard graffiti flies
And echoes wall to wall
Our precious model of democracy
It's the House of Commons brawl
One member from some dark mill town
Furious did cry
Spittle froth from folded chin
To dim the lie
Let's serve this brief and list the rush
Of who's allowed catcalls
Let's finish this right here and now
At the House of Commons brawl
Kick, punch with the government
As with jackets off they fly heaven-bent
Scratch gouge with the other side
As the party firmly admit a fight
Another day in the lives of those
Who would guide us through
If all is prepped that we should
By their example do
But there again I think for less
For gyving to the wall
The wrong house but the right idea
To end the Commons brawl
Got a grand house out in the country.
Marble pillars holding the door.
Empty bottles lining the wall from the night before.
Got a Roller out in the garage.
But the wheels are stuck to the floor.
Got no reason to go anywhere--no friends call anymore.
I don't want to be me, I don't want to be me,
I know it's hard to see, But I don't want to be me.
Had me playing down at the palace.
I was declared the belle of the ball.
Made the boys take my goods and chattels away--
now I'm staring at an empty hall.
I don't want to be me.
Pardon me--I'm on my way.
Pardon me but I'm going.
Taking on the simple life and I feel the grass roots growing.
I'm going to ride the ragged road--
diamond spurs jangling into the sunset.
No circuits running overload--Well maybe I'm not done yet.
Now there's nothing left in the cupboard
and three bears' been eating my soup.
My life is one big critical mess if you take a look.
And the butler's off in Ibiza on expense account gone berserk.
But I can't check out of this crazy world
without being a jerk--I don't want to be me.
Dirty white caravans down our road, sailing.
Vivas, Cortinas, weaving in their wake.
With hot, red-faced drivers, horns flattened, fists whaling,
Putting trust in blind corners as they overtake.
And it's "All come willing now,
Spend a shilling now,
Stack up the back of your new motor-car."
There's home-dyed woolens, and wee plastic curtains
The day of the Broadford Bazaar.
Out of the north, no oil-rigs are drifting.
And jobs for the many are down to the few.
Blue-bottle shoppers, they visit no longer.
Like flies to the jampots, they were just passing through.
And it's "All come willing now,
Spend a shilling now,
Stack up the back of your new motor-car"
Where once stood oil-rigs so phallic
There's only swear-words in Gaelic
To say at the Broadford bazaar.
All kinds of people come down for the opening.
Crofters and cottiers, white [wild?] settlers galore.
And up on the hill, there's an old sheep that's dying,
But it had two new lambs born just a fortnight before.
And it's "All come willing now,
Spend a shilling now,
Stack up the back of your new motor-car."
We'll take pounds, francs and dollars from the well-heeled,
And stamps from the Green Shield.
The day of the Broadford Bazaar.
Last light's out
They're all abed
And something's in my room
Creeping down towards me on the wall
Daddy said it's just some flickering
headlight through the gloom
Making shapes through trees outside the hall
But what the hell does he know?
He doesn't feel the dread
The cold restricting terror in the dark
I've seen that silhouette before
Something the newsman said
Something about some monster in the park
It's you, you're the man on the TV screen
It's you front page face of the dead
Locked up in the light of day
At night come out to play
To terrorize me there above my bed
The air is still and heavy now
There's thunder in the sky
He's dreaming up some message he can send
I'm scared completely helpless
and I think I'm going to cry
Are grownups brave or do they just pretend?
His face is growing clearer
I can see his eyes glow red
My teddy bear's the only friend I can feel
The shadow's hand slips down the wall
And touches teddy's head
I now suspect that shadow will touch me
Stopped off on a long drive.
Down from the high country.
Spent a long time sitting here,
Long time counting hot miles.
Ohh, oh I'd like a cup of black coffee and a piece of sweet cake.
But the girl in the print dress doesn't want my money--
she won't take it: she says--
Oh she says.
Oh she says I just know you're a Leo,
I can tell you've got a lion's heart.
She went on in this way for a while,
Like some 60's sister playing a part.
Ohh this cup of black coffee gonna do me just fine.
Through the dust in the mirror tiles I can see that door,
Keep it close behind.
Oh she says.
She says, come on over to my house,
make a journey here sometime.
You know there's a party going on,
a ladder in my stocking you can climb,
There's a ladder you can climb.
Oh she looked so liberated.
She was looking fit to start.
She got this back to front and sideways,
wore her sleeve upon her heart.
Ohhh, oh, just one more coffee's 'bout all I can take.
Have to do a truck stop runner now.
I'm not man enough to make it,
She says.
She says.
Oh she says.
She says, come on over to my house,
make a journey here sometime.
You know there's a party going on,
a ladder in my stocking you can climb,
There's a ladder you can climb.
Stopped off on a long drive.
Down from the high country.
Spent a long time sitting here,
Long time counting hot miles.
Ohh, oh I'd like a cup of black coffee and a piece of sweet cake.
But the girl in the print dress doesn't want my money--
she won't take it: she says--
Oh she says.
She says, come on over to my house,
make a journey here sometime.
Kick off those tired sports shoes--
got a ladder in my stocking you can climb,
There's a ladder you can climb.
Hard liner, she brings ice when I bring fire.
She's a hard liner.
Tightrope cross Niagara
She'd cut the wire
Never feel a thing.
Walked the sidewalk of another strange avenue.
Kicked my heels and wished my feet were in some other shoes.
But I'm not running from that hard liner.
Well she brings ice when I bring fire.
She's a real hard liner.
How does she retain my heart's desire?
It's a funny thing.
Knows what she wants, knows how to get it, too.
Scares me with cold logic, scares me with the witch's brew.
But I keep on drinking.
Hard liner.
Hard liner.
I'm framed and I'm hanging on the wall.
She's a hard liner.
I'm like some big game trophy hat-stand in the hall.
But I remember warm and loving nights.
Her [red?] hair, restaurants,
Swaying bust, headlights
It's a funny thing.
Hard liner.
Yeah, she brings ice when I bring fire.
Hard liner.
Tightrope 'cross Niagara, don't cut my wire.
Hard liner, hard, hard liner.
She brings sun when I bring rain.
She's a real hard liner.
Yeah, we've got it all crossed up again.
Hard liner. Hard liner.
Now I don't think we can stay in the same town.
Nightcap