Little woman, lemme bend yer ear fer three minutes,
Fer some standard rock fare.
See, I got me a preference,
Y'know the one I'm referencin'; you're
Fidgetin' and twirlin' yer hair.
Y'know the quickest way to the heart uvva man,
It ain't through his stomach, it's his prostate gland...
...She produced a tube, from which she extracted,
A dollop of gelatinous liquid
On the tip of a dainty,
Manicured finger...
There must be some tactful way
To broach such a sensitive subject, but
I guess, in a pinch, this way
Will do.
'See, I like songs that ain't too long,
And not a message, just a vague suggestion,
'n' I'm hopin' you like your suggestions that way too.
Bring me
A floin to clip, we'll read the...
Ching I
I'll be the stud of yer stamen, I'm uh...
King Bee
but never mind my stinger,
Set me off with uh touch of yer little finger, nah
Set me off...
[guitar solo]
I like songs that ain't too long, 'n' not a
Message, just a vague suggestion, and I'm
Hopin' you like your suggestions that way, too.
'Cuz there ain't no tactful way to
Broach such a nefarious subject as the
Dollop oozing from that acrid tube.
Researchers found, in the ruins of Rome,
a wretched volume
[¡Incorrigible tome!],
with one dog-eared page that drove it all home...
L-double-X-
L-X-X-I-
[¡That page!]
©2007, 2010 Andy Klosenski
This title originally appeared on American Toreador [2007]
[ http://honkygabacho.bandcamp.com/album/american-toreador ].
Showing posts with label american toreador. Show all posts
Showing posts with label american toreador. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
6) I Got Aces
Seamstress for the band,
New girl in town:
Tailor-made woman, ain't no
Hand-me-down.
¡Bay-beh,
I got aces!
¡Bay-beh...
Everybody's foldin', every hand that I play,
Corners of my mouth must uh
Gave me away, I said,
¡Bay-beh,
I got aces!
¡Bay-beh...
Closer to the vest with
Every hand that I play,
Thumpin' uh my cards must uh
Gave me away...
©2007, 2010 Andy Klosenski
Title also appears on American Toreador [2007].
[ http://honkygabacho.bandcamp.com/album/american-toreador ]
New girl in town:
Tailor-made woman, ain't no
Hand-me-down.
¡Bay-beh,
I got aces!
¡Bay-beh...
Everybody's foldin', every hand that I play,
Corners of my mouth must uh
Gave me away, I said,
¡Bay-beh,
I got aces!
¡Bay-beh...
Closer to the vest with
Every hand that I play,
Thumpin' uh my cards must uh
Gave me away...
©2007, 2010 Andy Klosenski
Title also appears on American Toreador [2007].
[ http://honkygabacho.bandcamp.com/album/american-toreador ]
9) Boca Sovacos
¡Boca Sovacos, Boca Sovacos,
There but for the Grace of God and Science goes
Boca Sovacos, Boca Sovacos,
Bringing his voodoo to a theater near you
Is he.
Boca Sovacos unlocks his zippered teeth,
Releasing a plume of
Hot Garbage 'n'
Bossa Nova.
Harps of slaver escape from his lips
His dreams start but stammer,
His rhythm, it slips,
The bandstand, she's a lonely place for old
¡Boca Sovacos, Boca Sovacos,
Drummer from a sideways time and space is poor
Boca Sovacos, Boca Sovacos,
Pied piper for an old, amphibious race is he!
His eyes, a blank-but-obstinate stare
Through cataracts and matted hair
Had looked upon the tangle there
Of Bottles, Cans 'n' Chains.
It was a Makeshift-Sort-Of
Formaheap
Percussion set on which he'd keep
A pulse for all mere mortals to disdain.
His eyes, a blank-but-obstinate stare
Still fixed upon some point somewhere
Beyond pedestrian affairs
And the All-To-Real Mundane,
For he saw, through the din and dross,
A way to get his point across,
Though what it was, he must've lost
In the tangle of his brain.
¡The beat, oh, it festers!
¡The tune, how it spoils!
Despite all he's weathered and how he still toils
No beast still attatched to its thin mortal coil
Could follow his refrain.
So with a club-foot, hunch-back shuffle he makes
His awkward, inefficient way
Behind the geometric fray
Of abovesaid Bottles, Cans 'n' Chains
And aforementioned
Tangled Brains.
¡Boca Sovacos, Boca Sovacos!
There but for the Grace of God and Science goes
Boca Sovacos, Boca Sovacos,
Drummer from a sideways Time and Space
And of an undead, Subterranean race
¡Yes!
Boca Sovacos
Adjusting his sock-o's
Warming-up for "the Seventh" in
Purgatory's bullpen is
¡Boca Sovacos:
BOKOR of Rock-os!
On a Crusade to raise a band of the Undead
Goes he.
He give a
RAP-TAP-TAP
On the drumheads,
¡Ay!
He got a
Book of Spells he can't
Pronounce too well,
He give uh...
¡Tighten those drumheads, ay!
He got some periodontal castanets uh-spittin'
Polyrhythmic epithets...
...He got a
HEIL TALKBOX in his gills
to help E-NUN-SEE-EY-SHAWN!
"¿You wanna be a
BOKOR?
"You gotta practice
som'more."
"¿You wanna, uh,
RAISE the DEAD?"
"Costs fifty pesos a head."
Put uh fiddle or a horn in each
Worm-riddled hand, said
"¡Ay, Senor Sovacos, you got yerself uh band",
Then give uh...
He got eyes like two plastic bags of fat,
'N' uh liver like uh slab of I-RON,
He got the swagger of a young Lon Cheney Sr.
'N' uh frilly shirt fit for Byron.
He wake the dead with a cowbell clamor,
'N' he move 'em with uh
Bone Marimba.
They shiver 'n' they shake to the
Racket he make, though they still aint
Exactly limbah,
oh, the man is
¡Boca Sovacos: Undercover Mariach-o!
Slipping in and out of rhythm and tune undetected goes
Boca Sovacos
With his Zombie Muchachos
Making music like panda bears
Falling down flights of stairs
Boca Sovacos
Eating human-skull tacos
'N' thumbing his nose at KURU infection, oh,
"¡Boca Sovacos, take
Bruce Villanche for the block-o!"
There but for the Grace of God and Science,
¡AY!
There but for the Curse of Bela Lugosi,
¡AY!
On the drunken tightrope of
HELL-AND-SUPERSTITION wobbles
¡BOCA SOVACOS!
©2007, 2010 Andy Klosenski
This title also appears on American Toreador [2007].
There but for the Grace of God and Science goes
Boca Sovacos, Boca Sovacos,
Bringing his voodoo to a theater near you
Is he.
Boca Sovacos unlocks his zippered teeth,
Releasing a plume of
Hot Garbage 'n'
Bossa Nova.
Harps of slaver escape from his lips
His dreams start but stammer,
His rhythm, it slips,
The bandstand, she's a lonely place for old
¡Boca Sovacos, Boca Sovacos,
Drummer from a sideways time and space is poor
Boca Sovacos, Boca Sovacos,
Pied piper for an old, amphibious race is he!
His eyes, a blank-but-obstinate stare
Through cataracts and matted hair
Had looked upon the tangle there
Of Bottles, Cans 'n' Chains.
It was a Makeshift-Sort-Of
Formaheap
Percussion set on which he'd keep
A pulse for all mere mortals to disdain.
His eyes, a blank-but-obstinate stare
Still fixed upon some point somewhere
Beyond pedestrian affairs
And the All-To-Real Mundane,
For he saw, through the din and dross,
A way to get his point across,
Though what it was, he must've lost
In the tangle of his brain.
¡The beat, oh, it festers!
¡The tune, how it spoils!
Despite all he's weathered and how he still toils
No beast still attatched to its thin mortal coil
Could follow his refrain.
So with a club-foot, hunch-back shuffle he makes
His awkward, inefficient way
Behind the geometric fray
Of abovesaid Bottles, Cans 'n' Chains
And aforementioned
Tangled Brains.
¡Boca Sovacos, Boca Sovacos!
There but for the Grace of God and Science goes
Boca Sovacos, Boca Sovacos,
Drummer from a sideways Time and Space
And of an undead, Subterranean race
¡Yes!
Boca Sovacos
Adjusting his sock-o's
Warming-up for "the Seventh" in
Purgatory's bullpen is
¡Boca Sovacos:
BOKOR of Rock-os!
On a Crusade to raise a band of the Undead
Goes he.
He give a
RAP-TAP-TAP
On the drumheads,
¡Ay!
He got a
Book of Spells he can't
Pronounce too well,
He give uh...
¡Tighten those drumheads, ay!
He got some periodontal castanets uh-spittin'
Polyrhythmic epithets...
...He got a
HEIL TALKBOX in his gills
to help E-NUN-SEE-EY-SHAWN!
"¿You wanna be a
BOKOR?
"You gotta practice
som'more."
"¿You wanna, uh,
RAISE the DEAD?"
"Costs fifty pesos a head."
Put uh fiddle or a horn in each
Worm-riddled hand, said
"¡Ay, Senor Sovacos, you got yerself uh band",
Then give uh...
He got eyes like two plastic bags of fat,
'N' uh liver like uh slab of I-RON,
He got the swagger of a young Lon Cheney Sr.
'N' uh frilly shirt fit for Byron.
He wake the dead with a cowbell clamor,
'N' he move 'em with uh
Bone Marimba.
They shiver 'n' they shake to the
Racket he make, though they still aint
Exactly limbah,
oh, the man is
¡Boca Sovacos: Undercover Mariach-o!
Slipping in and out of rhythm and tune undetected goes
Boca Sovacos
With his Zombie Muchachos
Making music like panda bears
Falling down flights of stairs
Boca Sovacos
Eating human-skull tacos
'N' thumbing his nose at KURU infection, oh,
"¡Boca Sovacos, take
Bruce Villanche for the block-o!"
There but for the Grace of God and Science,
¡AY!
There but for the Curse of Bela Lugosi,
¡AY!
On the drunken tightrope of
HELL-AND-SUPERSTITION wobbles
¡BOCA SOVACOS!
©2007, 2010 Andy Klosenski
This title also appears on American Toreador [2007].
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