There’s too many bad poems clottin’ up my mind
and the river’s turned from whiskey to turpentine.
My heart’s a swimming pool full of pork-u-pines
and I’m four nickels short of a paradigm.
I met the Son of Blacula and a Parliament of Swine,
we’re all shufflin’ round the graveyard like
Why, if the river was whiskey and I was a duck
then the river would be a philosophical construct
and the whiskey would be the flow of ideology
in a world without constructionist epistemology.
The drunk would teach the drunkard and the one eyed rule the blind
and we’d all get along like
Schopenhauer understood the bourgeois
the Nomenklatura and the chimpanzee!
He said “here is the church, here is the steeple
and all you sons of bitches are the fin de siecle”.
So tonight you’d better party like it’s 1999
and all get chopped and screwed like
Rollin’ and tumblin’ in the dust and clay
with a yeller-headed gal I met on Merle Haggard Day
Rollin’ and a tumblin’ in the mire and the murk
when the yeller-headed gal, she starts goin’ berserk
hollerin’ “whose gonna shoe my pretty lil’ feet and mend my evil eye?”
So she left me for wealthy Doctor
The President came for to throw me in chains
I fetched me up a hatchet and I spilled out his brains –
and the axe and the chain are so intimately weighted
that the norm of the truth is the fact that we’ve made it.
Presidents, they leave no truths, just tracks that intertwine
bad blood fused to rotten bone like
If that river was whiskey I’d be stuck on the bank
chugging down a pint of purple drank!
Hesitations stockings and hesitation’s shoes
make a fine gallows platform and hanging noose,
so I’d take that fool notion if I was peculiarly inclined
but my head’s sewed on like