A Most Disgusting Song
I've played every kind of gigthere is to play now.I've played faggot bars,hooker bars, motorcycle funerals,in opera houses, concert halls,halfway houses.
Well I found thatin all these places that I've played,all the people that I've played forare the same people.So if you'll listen,maybe you'll see someoneyou know in this song.
A most disgusting song.
The local diddy-bop pimp comes in,acting limp he sits down with a grinnext to a girl that has never been chased.The bartender wipes a smile off his face.The delegates cross the floor,curtsy and promenade through the doors,and slowly the evening begins.
And there's Jimmy "Bad Luck" Buttswho's just crazy aboutthem East Lafayette weekend sluts.Talking is the lawyer in crumpled up shirt,and everyone's drinking the detergentsthat cannot remove their hurts.
While the Mafia provides your drugs,your government will provide the shrugs,and your national guard will supply the slugs,so they sit all satisfied.
And there's old playboy Ralphwho's always been shorter than himself.And there's a man with his chin in his hand,who knows more than he'll ever understand.
Yeah, every night it's the same old thing:Getting high, getting drunk, getting horny,at the Inn-Between, again.
And there's the bearded schoolboywith the wooden eyeswho at every scented skirtwhispers up and sighs.And there's a teacherthat will kiss you in French,who could never give love,could only fearfully clench.
Yeah people,every night it's the same old thing:Getting pacified, ossified,affectionate at Mr. Flood's party, again.
And there's the militantwith his store-bought soul.There's someone herewho's almost a virgin, I've been told.And there's Linda glass-madewho speaks of the past,who genuflects, salutes,signs the cross and stands at half mast
Yeah, they're all here:The tiny Tims and the Uncle Toms,redheads, brunettes, brownettesand the dyed haired blondes,who talk to dogs, chase broadsand have hopes of being mobbed,who mislay their dreamsand later claim that they were robbed.
And every night it's going to be the same old thing:Getting high, getting drunk, getting horny --Lost, even, at Martha's Vineyard, again.