Jimbo, boy, you're a croc of shit,
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You're a boozed, selfish thug;
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Why don't you give your mouth a go
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And in the other hole put a plug?
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By Christ you've got a long long way
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On a schoolboy's talent with words -
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One crappy bit of symbolism
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And you're adored by a army of turds.
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You're a selfish, rude, arrogant prick;
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You're basically pretty stupid;
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Your mysticism's a lump of shit,
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And so are all the girls you rooted.
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So don't talk about being sad and lonely
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Or fucking misunderstood
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Because underneath that self-pitying phoney
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Is a brutal, selfish hood.
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I support the police that took you off stage,
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I support the fact you bled;
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I support the cops who carried you off,
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I support the fact you're dead.
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I think that you're a troubled guy
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And I think that's nothing new;
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I think your fans are a bunch of turds
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Almost as immature as you.
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And when I'm in my supermarket
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And some prick pushes in front of my trolley
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I'll be reminded of your stinking bravado
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And I'll ask the cunt to say sorry.
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You fans would excuse any rudeness
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Just because it comes from you -
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You'd tell them to go drop dead
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And they'd say, "Oh, how true, how true, how TRUE."
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You need a nine to five job, Jimbo;
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You need to get to Flinders St. by train -
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Go and find yourself a regular income,
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Then you can write a song about pain.
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Try and save for the kids' school fees;
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Take some care when you drive a car;
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Put your rubbish in a bin
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You fucking great rock super star.
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You've spawned a host of cock-sure shits
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Who are nearly always filthy rich,
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And think because they're a bit like Jimbo
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They can act like stinking pricks:
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An army of brainless, arty youth
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That look down upon us common plods -
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But they barrack for good ol' Jimbo
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Like the fucking Richmond cheer squad.
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So when you're listening to Morrison Hotel
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And Jimbo's in top form
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Whining about this harsh cruel world
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And the fact he was ever born
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Remember that his fans are rapt
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And mourning their suffering lives,
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And go down and discuss it at Subterrain -
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And least, if Daddy'll drive.
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Jimbo, king of the private school kids:
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The girls from P.L.C.
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Who identify with his tortured soul
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Because they've got dropped by friend number three,
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Who was Kent from Xavier College -
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In H.S.C. he got a "A" for English,
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And between Jimbo and William Blake
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He hasn't the brains to distinguish.
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Jimbo, father of a generation
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Of private school depression idols;
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From Nick Cave on, they don't kill themselves -
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Just tell us why they're suicidal.
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He's made self-pity legitimate;
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It means we'll have to face
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One after another artist with integrity,
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Like REO Speedwagon - sorry, I meant Hugo Race.
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Well, up your arse Jimbo old man,
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Up your fucking hole:
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You're a prick pure and simple -
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It's about time you were told;
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And up your arse to all your fans;
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Up your arse to your tortured, artistic hell;
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And while we're fucking at it,
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Up your arse to Morrissey as well;
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Up your arse to Robert Smith;
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Up your arse to Albert Camus;
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All those "I'm suffering for my arty" types,
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Jimbo, I blame them all on you.
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Anyone who handles life's pain
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With a token of mature self examination -
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It's time they told these pounces to stick it
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Up their bogus self infatuation:
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And if you think I'll stop at this,
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The answer is, no way, never -
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If you think Jim Morrison was a wanker,
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Well, Christ - I can rave on like this forever.
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-----------------
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Morrison Hostel
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| TISM |
