I've played every kind of gig there is to play now
|
I've played faggot bars, hooker bars, motorcycle funerals
|
In opera houses, concert halls, halfway houses.
|
|
Well I found that in all these places that I've played
|
all the people that I've played for are the same people
|
So if you'll listen, maybe you'll see someone you know in this song.
|
|
A most disgusting song.
|
|
The local diddy bop pimp comes in
|
Acting limp he sits down with a grin
|
next 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" Butts
|
who's just crazy about them East Lafayette weekend sluts
|
Talking is the lawyer in crumpled up shirt
|
And everyone's drinking the detergents
|
that 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 Ralph
|
who'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 schoolboy with the wooden eyes
|
Who at every scented skirt whispers up and sighs
|
and there's a teacher that 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 militant with his store-bought soul
|
There's someone here who's almost a virgin I've been told
|
And there's Linda glass-made who 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, brownettes and the dyed haired blondes,
|
Who talk to dogs, chase broads and have hopes of being mobbed,
|
who mislay their dreams and 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
|
|
-----------------
|
A Most Disgusting Song
|
| Rodriguez |