What we once thought we had we didn't, and what we have now will never be that way again
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So we call upon the author to explain
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Our myxomatoid kids spraddle the streets, we've shunned them from the greasy-grind
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The poor little things, they look so sad and old as they mount us from behind
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I ask them to desist and to refrain
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And then we call upon the author to explain
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Rosary clutched in his hand, he died with tubes up his nose
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And a cabal of angels with finger cymbals chanted his name in code
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We shook our fists at the punishing rain
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And we call upon the author to explain
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He said everything is messed up around here, everything is banal and jejune
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There is a planetary conspiracy against the likes of you and me in this idiot constituency of the moon
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Well, he knew exactly who to blame
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And we call upon the author to explain
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Prolix! Prolix! Nothing a pair of scissors can't fix!
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Prolix! Prolix! Nothing a pair of scissors can't fix!
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Well, I go guruing down the street, young people gather round my feet
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Ask me things, but I don'r know where to start
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They ignite the power-trail ssstraight to my father's heart
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And once again I call upon the author to explain
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We call upon the author to explain
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Who is this great burdensome slavering dog-thing that mediocres my every thought?
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I feel like a vacuum cleaner, a complete sucker, it's fucked up and he is a fucker
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But what an enormous and encyclopaedic brain
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I call upon the author to explain
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Oh rampant discrimination, mass poverty, third world debt, infectious diseease
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Global inequality and deepening socio-economic divisions
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Well, it does in your brain
|
And we call upon the author to explain
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Now hang on, my friend Doug is tapping on the window (Hey Doug, how you been?)
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Brings me back a book on holocaust poetry complete with pictures
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Then tells me to get ready for the rain
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And we call upon the author to explain
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I say prolix! Prolix! Something a pair of scissors can fix
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Bukowski was a jerk! Berryman was best!
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He wrote like wet papier mache, went the Heming-way weirdly on wings and with maximum pain
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We call upon the author to explain
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Down in my bolthole I see they've published another volume of unreconstructed rubbish
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"The waves, the waves were soldiers moving". Well, thank you, thank you, thank you
|
And again I call upon the author to explain
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Yeah, we call upon the author to explain
|
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Prolix! Prolix! There's nothing a pair of scissors can't fix!
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-----------------
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We Call Upon The Author
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| Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds |
