Words Without Music

[maryportfuncity 10,700]

We've got threads for movies and books. How about we post a few songwords, share our innermost thoughts on these nuggets of deep philosophy and then cringe as others tear us apart for our appaling taste? Be business as usual as far as the extra-curricular division goes. I'll cop for the fact that two of us in the office at this moment are playing Exorcising Ghosts, the best of Japan and agreeing that the following is a better song and lyric than we remembered.

 

 

 

 

Nightporters

 

 

Could I ever explain

This feeling of love it just lingers on

The fear in my heart that keeps telling me which way to turn

 

We'll wander again

Our clothes they are wet

We shy from the rain

Longing to touch all the places we know we can hide

The width of a room that can hold so much pleasure inside

 

Here am I alone again

A quiet town where life begins

Here am I just wondering

Nightporters go

Nightporters slip away

 

I'll watch for a sign

And if I should ever again cross your mind

I'll sit in my room and wait until nightlife begins

I'm catching my breath

We'll both brave the weather again

 

Here am I alone again

A quiet town where life gives in

Here am I just wondering

Nightporters go

Nightporters slip away

[Guest The Hungarian phrasebook]

When I can remove the eels obstructing my hovercraft's sound system I find that I am rather partial to this ode to processed meat products:

 

Lovely spam, wonderful spa-a-m,

Lovely spam, wonderful S Spam,

Spa-a-a-a-a-a-a-am,

Spa-a-a-a-a-a-a-am,

SPA-A-A-A-A-A-A-AM,

SPA-A-A-A-A-A-A-AM,

LOVELY SPAM, LOVELY SPAM,

LOVELY SPAM, LOVELY SPAM,

LOVELY SPA-A-A-A-AM...

SPA-AM, SPA-AM, SPA-AM, SPA-A-A-AM!

[Lord Fellatio Nelson 6,226]

Hmmm, an interesting thread Mary.

Here is my small contribution from a legend.

 

 

Lines form on my face and hands

Lines form from the ups and downs

I´m in the middle, without any plans

I´m a boy and I´m a man.

 

I´m eighteen

And I don´t know what I want

Eighteen

I just don´t know what I want

Eighteen

I gotta get away

Eighteen

I gotta get out of this place

I´ll go runnin´ in outer space

Oh yeah.

 

I got a

Baby´s brain and an old man´s heart

Took eighteen years to get this far

Don´t always know what I´m talkin´ about

Feels like I´m livin´ in the middle of doubt

Cause I´m eighteen

I get confused every day

Eighteen

I just don´t know what to say

Eighteen

I gotta get away.

 

Lines form on my face and my hands

Lines form on the left and right

I´m the middle

The middle of life

I´m a boy and I´m a man

I´m eighteen and I like it

Yes I like it

Oh, I like it

Love it, like it, love it

Eighteen, Eighteen, Eighteen

I´m eighteen and I like it.

[maryportfuncity 10,700]

Ah LFN, I'll cop to a partiality for Alice Cooper and respect for the man's twists of humour and insight. I've loved Billion Dollar Babies and, this little ballad, for a long time:

 

 

 

Mary-Ann, I'm really crazy

about you, do what I can

I just can't live without you, Mary-Ann

Mary-Ann

 

Mary-Ann

My life was built around you

Stars and sand, your eyes were

pools of laughter, Mary-Ann

I thought you were my man

[Lard Bazaar 3,807]

Bloody hell, Mary, I'm sobbing into my Diet Pepsi here.....I think I'm gonna have to go and put my Smiths CD on to cheer myself up.

[Madame Defarge 21]

Love, hate, passion, squid, it's got it all:

 

The Revenge of the Vera Gemini

Blue Oyster Cult

 

Youre boned like a saint

With the consciousness of a snake

 

Youre the kind of girl

Id like to find

Face like an angel

But youre boned like the devil

 

Your eyes have shifted from me

Everyone saw what you did

You have slipped from beneath me

Like a false and nervous squid

 

Oh no more horses horses

Were gonna swim like a fish

Into the hole, in which you planned to ditch me

My lovely vera marie

 

You planned to leave me cold

But youll never get your wish

On the 24th of may

Ill gather up your reins

 

You filled me with a vengeance

And you touched me with your breath

Im gonna pull you from this dance

Youre gonna ride so easily

 

Oh no more horses horses

Were gonna swim like a fish

Into the hole, in which you planned to ditch me

My lovely vera marie

 

I was your victim

I was well deceived

Hells built on regret

But I love your naked neck

 

And evil lies that you told me

Could make me believe your two-faced

Because two faces have you

And theyre both gonna go

 

Oh no more horses horses

Were gonna swim like a fish

Into the hole, in which you planned to ditch me

My lovely vera gemini

[honez 79]

This rates as one of my all time faves... An extract from PWEI's Everything's Cool.

 

Take your places, choose your sins

Everyone loses, noone wins

I have seen the future and this is how it begins

 

In chaos and riots, the screech of machines

No right and no wrong and no in between

Fall one by one, the queen to her fool

Dos dedos mis amigos - everything's cool

 

...

 

Take this line, know where it ends

No return, no make amends

Is this the future or this is how it will end?

[maryportfuncity 10,700]

More a story than a song.....The Gift, by The Velvet Underground

 

 

 

Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant he had

been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had

to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone

calls. True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin, and he to

Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would

date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful.

 

But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when

he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning

underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes as he

pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of

some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion.

It was more than the human mind could bear.

 

Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual

abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn't understand how

she really was. He, Waldo, alone understood this. He had intuitively grasped

every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile. She needed him, and

he wasn't there (Awww...).

 

The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers' Parade was scheduled

to appear. He'd just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar

fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from

Marsha. There was nothing but a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company

of America inquiring into his awing needs. At least they cared enough to write.

 

It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails. Then it struck

him. He didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion,

true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself

parcel post, special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to

purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a

medium sized cardboard box just right for a person of his build. He judged that

with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes,

some water, perhaps some midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as

going tourist.

 

By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post

office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. He'd marked the package

"Fragile", and as he sat curled up inside, resting on the foam rubber

cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and

happiness on Marshas face as she opened her door, saw the package, tipped the

deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She

would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of

this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne

up. He landed with a thud in a truck and was off.

 

Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough

weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about

it though. After it was over he'd said he still respected her and, after all,

it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didn't love her, he

did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what

Bill could teach Waldo - but that seemed many years ago.

 

Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend, walked in through the porch screen

door and into the kitchen. "Oh gawd, it's absolutely maudlin outside." "Ach, I

know what you mean, I feel all icky!" Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton

robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on

the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face. "I'm supposed to be

taking these salt pills, but," she wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like

throwing up." Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she'd

seen on television. "God, don't even talk about that." She got up from the

table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue

vitamins. "Want one? Supposed to be better than steak," and then attempted to

touch her knees. "I don't think I'll ever touch a daiquiri again."

 

She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the

telephone. "Maybe Bill'll call," she said to Sheila's glance. Sheila nibbled on

a cuticle. "After last night, I thought maybe you'd be through with him." "I

know what you mean. My God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the place."

She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense. "The thing is, after a

while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all I didn't

really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him. You know

what I mean." She started to scratch. Sheila was giggling with her hand over

her mouth. "I'll tell you, I felt the same way, and even after a while," here

she bent forward in a whisper, "I wanted to!" Now she was laughing very loudly.

 

It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow Post Office rang

the doorbell of the large stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson

opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and his

green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen cent tip that Marsha had

gotten out of her mother's small beige pocketbook in the den. "What do you

think it is?" Sheila asked. Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back.

She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living

room. "I dunno."

 

Inside the package, Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the

muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down

the center of the carton. "Why don't you look at the return address and see who

it's from?" Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the

vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.

 

Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. "Ah, god,

it's from Waldo!" "That schmuck!" said Sheila. Waldo trembled with expectation.

"Well, you might as well open it," said Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the

staple flap. "Ah sst," said Marsha, groaning, "he must have nailed it shut."

They tugged on the flap again. "My God, you need a power drill to get this

thing open!" They pulled again. "You can't get a grip." They both stood still,

breathing heavily.

 

"Why don't you get a scissor," said Sheila. Marsha ran into the kitchen, but

all she could find was a little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her

father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran downstairs, and when

she came back up, she had a large sheet metal cutter

in her hand. "This is the best I could find." She was very out of breath.

"Here, you do it. I-I'm gonna die." She sank into a large fluffy couch and

exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the

end of the cardboard flap, but the blade was too big and there wasn't enough

room. "God damn this thing!" she said feeling very exasperated. Then smiling,

"I got an idea." "What?" said Marsha. "Just watch," said Sheila, touching her

finger to her head.

 

Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could

barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat, and he could feel his

heart beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila stood quite upright and

walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her

knees, grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath, and plunged the

long blade through the middle of the package, through the masking tape, through

the cardboard, through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of

Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red

to pulsate gently in the morning sun.

[Paul Bearer 6,135]

Hurricane by Bob Dylan. fantastic

 

Pistol shots ring out in the barroom night

Enter Patty Valentine from the upper hall.

She sees the bartender in a pool of blood,

Cries out, "My God, they killed them all!"

Here comes the story of the Hurricane,

The man the authorities came to blame

For somethin' that he never done.

Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been

The champion of the world.

 

Three bodies lyin' there does Patty see

And another man named Bello, movin' around mysteriously.

"I didn't do it," he says, and he throws up his hands

"I was only robbin' the register, I hope you understand.

I saw them leavin'," he says, and he stops

"One of us had better call up the cops."

And so Patty calls the cops

And they arrive on the scene with their red lights flashin'

In the hot New Jersey night.

 

Meanwhile, far away in another part of town

Rubin Carter and a couple of friends are drivin' around.

Number one contender for the middleweight crown

Had no idea what kinda sh*t was about to go down

When a cop pulled him over to the side of the road

Just like the time before and the time before that.

In Paterson that's just the way things go.

If you're black you might as well not show up on the street

'Less you wanna draw the heat.

 

Alfred Bello had a partner and he had a rap for the cops.

Him and Arthur Dexter Bradley were just out prowlin' around

He said, "I saw two men runnin' out, they looked like middleweights

They jumped into a white car with out-of-state plates."

And Miss Patty Valentine just nodded her head.

Cop said, "Wait a minute, boys, this one's not dead"

So they took him to the infirmary

And though this man could hardly see

They told him that he could identify the guilty men.

 

Four in the mornin' and they haul Rubin in,

Take him to the hospital and they bring him upstairs.

The wounded man looks up through his one dyin' eye

Says, "Wha'd you bring him in here for? He ain't the guy!"

Yes, here's the story of the Hurricane,

The man the authorities came to blame

For somethin' that he never done.

Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been

The champion of the world.

 

Four months later, the ghettos are in flame,

Rubin's in South America, fightin' for his name

While Arthur Dexter Bradley's still in the robbery game

And the cops are puttin' the screws to him, lookin' for somebody to blame.

"Remember that murder that happened in a bar?"

"Remember you said you saw the getaway car?"

"You think you'd like to play ball with the law?"

"Think it might-a been that fighter that you saw runnin' that night?"

"Don't forget that you are white."

 

Arthur Dexter Bradley said, "I'm really not sure."

Cops said, "A poor boy like you could use a break

We got you for the motel job and we're talkin' to your friend Bello

Now you don't wanta have to go back to jail, be a nice fellow.

You'll be doin' society a favor.

That sonofabitch is brave and gettin' braver.

We want to put his ass in stir

We want to pin this triple murder on him

He ain't no Gentleman Jim."

 

Rubin could take a man out with just one punch

But he never did like to talk about it all that much.

It's my work, he'd say, and I do it for pay

And when it's over I'd just as soon go on my way

Up to some paradise

Where the trout streams flow and the air is nice

And ride a horse along a trail.

But then they took him to the jailhouse

Where they try to turn a man into a mouse.

 

All of Rubin's cards were marked in advance

The trial was a pig-circus, he never had a chance.

The judge made Rubin's witnesses drunkards from the slums

To the white folks who watched he was a revolutionary bum

And to the black folks he was just a crazy N-word.

No one doubted that he pulled the trigger.

And though they could not produce the gun,

The D.A. said he was the one who did the deed

And the all-white jury agreed.

 

Rubin Carter was falsely tried.

The crime was murder "one," guess who testified?

Bello and Bradley and they both baldly lied

And the newspapers, they all went along for the ride.

How can the life of such a man

Be in the palm of some fool's hand?

To see him obviously framed

Couldn't help but make me feel ashamed to live in a land

Where justice is a game.

 

Now all the criminals in their coats and their ties

Are free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise

While Rubin sits like Buddha in a ten-foot cell

An innocent man in a living hell.

That's the story of the Hurricane,

But it won't be over till they clear his name

And give him back the time he's done.

Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been

The champion of the world.

[DevonDeathTrip 2,366]

A New England - Sung by the late Kirsty MacColl and written by Billy Bragg. Two of the best verses of all time in the same song:

 

I was 21 years when I wrote this song

I'm 22 now but I won't be for long

People ask me when will I grow up to understand

Why the girls I knew at school are already pushing prams

 

I loved you then as I love you still

Though I put you on a pedestal you put me on the pill

I don't feel bad about letting you go

I just feel sad about letting you know

 

I don't want to change the world

I'm not looking for a new England

Are you looking for another girl?

I don't want to change the world

I'm not looking for a new England

Are you looking for another girl?

 

I loved the words you wrote to me

But that was bloody yesterday

I can't survive on what you send

Every time you need a friend

 

I saw two shooting stars last night

I wished on them but they were only satellites

It's wrong to wish on space hardware

I wish, I wish, I wish you'd care

 

My dreams were full of strange ideas

My mind was set despite your fears

But other things got in the way

I never asked that boy to stay

 

Once upon a time at home

I sat beside the telephone

Waiting for someone to pull me through

When at last it didn't ring I knew it wasn't you

 

http://www.justiceforkirsty.org/

[Lard Bazaar 3,807]

A New England - Sung by the late Kirsty MacColl and written by Billy Bragg. Two of the best verses of all time in the same song:

 

I was 21 years when I wrote this song

I'm 22 now but I won't be for long

People ask me when will I grow up to understand

Why the girls I knew at school are already pushing prams

 

I loved you then as I love you still

Though I put you on a pedestal you put me on the pill

I don't feel bad about letting you go

I just feel sad about letting you know

 

I don't want to change the world

I'm not looking for a new England

Are you looking for another girl?

I don't want to change the world

I'm not looking for a new England

Are you looking for another girl?

 

I loved the words you wrote to me

But that was bloody yesterday

I can't survive on what you send

Every time you need a friend

 

I saw two shooting stars last night

I wished on them but they were only satellites

It's wrong to wish on space hardware

I wish, I wish, I wish you'd care

 

My dreams were full of strange ideas

My mind was set despite your fears

But other things got in the way

I never asked that boy to stay

 

Once upon a time at home

I sat beside the telephone

Waiting for someone to pull me through

When at last it didn't ring I knew it wasn't you

 

http://www.justiceforkirsty.org/

 

Good choice, I've sung along loudly to this song for years, but never actually listened properly to the words I was singing - and now I've taken notice of the words it makes the song even better, if that makes sense?

[Lord Fellatio Nelson 6,226]

More a story than a song.....The Gift, by The Velvet Underground

 

 

 

Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant he had

been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had

to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone

calls. True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin, and he to

Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would

date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful.

 

But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when

he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning

underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes as he

pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of

some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion.

It was more than the human mind could bear.

 

Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual

abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn't understand how

she really was. He, Waldo, alone understood this. He had intuitively grasped

every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile. She needed him, and

he wasn't there (Awww...).

 

The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers' Parade was scheduled

to appear. He'd just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar

fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from

Marsha. There was nothing but a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company

of America inquiring into his awing needs. At least they cared enough to write.

 

It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails. Then it struck

him. He didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion,

true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself

parcel post, special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to

purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a

medium sized cardboard box just right for a person of his build. He judged that

with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes,

some water, perhaps some midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as

going tourist.

 

By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post

office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. He'd marked the package

"Fragile", and as he sat curled up inside, resting on the foam rubber

cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and

happiness on Marshas face as she opened her door, saw the package, tipped the

deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She

would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of

this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne

up. He landed with a thud in a truck and was off.

 

Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough

weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about

it though. After it was over he'd said he still respected her and, after all,

it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didn't love her, he

did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what

Bill could teach Waldo - but that seemed many years ago.

 

Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend, walked in through the porch screen

door and into the kitchen. "Oh gawd, it's absolutely maudlin outside." "Ach, I

know what you mean, I feel all icky!" Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton

robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on

the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face. "I'm supposed to be

taking these salt pills, but," she wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like

throwing up." Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she'd

seen on television. "God, don't even talk about that." She got up from the

table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue

vitamins. "Want one? Supposed to be better than steak," and then attempted to

touch her knees. "I don't think I'll ever touch a daiquiri again."

 

She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the

telephone. "Maybe Bill'll call," she said to Sheila's glance. Sheila nibbled on

a cuticle. "After last night, I thought maybe you'd be through with him." "I

know what you mean. My God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the place."

She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense. "The thing is, after a

while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all I didn't

really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him. You know

what I mean." She started to scratch. Sheila was giggling with her hand over

her mouth. "I'll tell you, I felt the same way, and even after a while," here

she bent forward in a whisper, "I wanted to!" Now she was laughing very loudly.

 

It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow Post Office rang

the doorbell of the large stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson

opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and his

green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen cent tip that Marsha had

gotten out of her mother's small beige pocketbook in the den. "What do you

think it is?" Sheila asked. Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back.

She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living

room. "I dunno."

 

Inside the package, Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the

muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down

the center of the carton. "Why don't you look at the return address and see who

it's from?" Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the

vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.

 

Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. "Ah, god,

it's from Waldo!" "That schmuck!" said Sheila. Waldo trembled with expectation.

"Well, you might as well open it," said Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the

staple flap. "Ah sst," said Marsha, groaning, "he must have nailed it shut."

They tugged on the flap again. "My God, you need a power drill to get this

thing open!" They pulled again. "You can't get a grip." They both stood still,

breathing heavily.

 

"Why don't you get a scissor," said Sheila. Marsha ran into the kitchen, but

all she could find was a little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her

father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran downstairs, and when

she came back up, she had a large sheet metal cutter

in her hand. "This is the best I could find." She was very out of breath.

"Here, you do it. I-I'm gonna die." She sank into a large fluffy couch and

exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the

end of the cardboard flap, but the blade was too big and there wasn't enough

room. "God damn this thing!" she said feeling very exasperated. Then smiling,

"I got an idea." "What?" said Marsha. "Just watch," said Sheila, touching her

finger to her head.

 

Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could

barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat, and he could feel his

heart beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila stood quite upright and

walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her

knees, grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath, and plunged the

long blade through the middle of the package, through the masking tape, through

the cardboard, through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of

Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red

to pulsate gently in the morning sun.

 

Mary, I know that took some digging out.

You are a star!!

[TAFKAG 70]

Alternatively (as rewritten by Christopher J Falvey)...

 

 

 

"Rock and Roll"

BY LED ZEPPELIN

 

It has come to pass an extended era from the time when I swayed and revolved,

 

It has come to pass an extended era from the time when I performed the leisurely walk.

 

Ooh, allow me to obtain it in return, allow me to obtain it in return,

 

Allow me to obtain it in return, little one, where I approach from.

 

It has come to pass an extended era, come to pass an extended era,

 

Ensued an extended isolated, isolated, isolated, isolated, isolated occasion. Agreed it has.

 

"Yesterday"

BY THE BEATLES

 

In the recent past, every one of my dilemmas gave the impression of being so distantly absent.

 

At the present, it seems as though they're at this time to hang about.

 

Oh, I accept as true the recent past.

 

Abruptly, I'm not partially the gentleman I used to exist as.

 

There's a silhouette suspended on top of me.

 

Oh, the recent past approached abruptly.

 

"My Generation"

BY THE WHO

 

The populace attempts to place us behind

(Discussing on the subject of my age group)

 

Simply since we become known

(Discussing on the subject of my age group)

 

Belongings they do give the impression of being dreadfully chilly

(Discussing on the subject of my age group)

 

I anticipate I will expire previous to when I become aged

(Discussing on the subject of my age group)

 

This is my age group

 

This is my age group, infant

 

"Purple Haze"

BY JIMI HENDRIX

 

Violet mist completely in my intellect

 

Recently, effects simply don't give the impression of being identical

 

Carrying on humorously; however, I am not acquainted with the reason

 

Pardon me at the same time as I make out with the atmosphere

 

Violet mist altogether in the region of

 

Don't recognize if I'm approaching happy or depressed

 

Am I content or in desolation?

 

Suchlike it is, that lass placed a magic charm on top of me

 

Assist me

Assist me

Oh, no, no

[honez 79]

[Paul Bearer 6,135]

Deathlist alternative 'Fairytale of New York' Enjoy.


T'was New Year's Eve, babe.

In the Dead Chat.

Grim Reaper said to us, can't face another row.

So then I read a thread; the tale of Dickie O'

I turned my face away

and dreamed of years ago.


<riverdance / fiddle>


We had a Notapotato and Slave to the Grave

and Josco and Godot and Iain and Dave.

When Tempus and Winsdor and Banshees kicked off

It seemed like the admins had had quite enough.


"You're a dick, you're a twunt", "you're a mad insane c**t"

"You're all post-whores" said StarCrossed, then someone was banned.

The threads got quite heated, some posts were deleted,

The trolls and the guests also got out of hand.


The mods and admins shook their heads and begged them, "please behave"

As the list was going up on New Year's Day.

[Sir Creep 7,072]

On 13/01/2009 at 17:06, maryportfuncity said:

More a story than a song.....The Gift, by The Velvet Underground

 

Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant he had

been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had

to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone

calls. True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin, and he to

Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would

date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful.

 

But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when

he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning

underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes as he

pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of

some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion.

It was more than the human mind could bear.

 

Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual

abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn't understand how

she really was. He, Waldo, alone understood this. He had intuitively grasped

every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile. She needed him, and

he wasn't there (Awww...).

 

The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers' Parade was scheduled

to appear. He'd just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar

fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from

Marsha. There was nothing but a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company

of America inquiring into his awing needs. At least they cared enough to write.

**snip**
 

NO fucking idea what a Mummer's Parade is, but since you (or VU) mentioned it above (and my pre-post search found it...)
 

The Mummers community was stunned Tuesday to learn Bob Shannon, Jr., 71 — a giant in stature and legacy — died suddenly Monday night.   "He's the world's most famous mummer," Harry Brown, the string band's president told the Courier Post Tuesday.  

The newest Mummers string band hangs its golden slippers in Gloucester County Quaker City — the 2019 Mummers Parade string band champion — broke the news of Shannon's passing on its Facebook page. Three hours after the announcement, more than 1,000 comments offered thoughts, prayers and memories of the biggest guy in a feathered back piece on Broad Street.  Shannon, standing at 6'10",  was a member of the Quaker City String Band for more than 50 years. His reign as the band's captain began in 1972.
SC