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Lord Mongrel is Dying

by Bongo Fury

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1.
The gods, distressed, revoke idolatry And make mankind sweat tears beneath the sun So not a goat, a stone, a doll, a tree Nor Science can usurp them as The One. Distinctions which, when shown beneath my glass Are so slight one can't place a breath between Yet once distorted by intentions crass Become the gulfs most monstrous ever seen. The gods, distressed, are fearing that their Fate Has now become dispensable to those Whose worshipping did once serve to inflate The egos of the gods with praise and prose. And needing us to buttress their designs The gods scare us to prayer to prop their spines. 9-90
2.
Pearl Jam bought my hair all eighteen chunks of it at a junk store on the waterfront The drummer first spotted the item, showed it to the guitarist the one with the pitiful hats whose name is something both hard and bird-like but I can't really remember right now and he really dug it Of course, they didn't know who I was even though my name was on it they just thought hey cool and it's only eight bucks and the guitarist probably thought he could make a pitiful hat out of it They walked up to the salescounter and from the other direction came the lead singer, the one who sounds like he's imitating a heavy metal singer, who in turn is imitating a previous heavy metal singer, the one whom Grace Slick made her comment about: There's great singers today, like Eddie Vedder from Pearl Jam but none of the stations play these bands so nobody hears them and their great talents go unnoticed. And supplemented: It's tough out there these days. Which led me to think of the amount of drugs she probably did and how they must have poisoned her mind and how she sang "We Built This City on Rock and Roll" and other great gifts to Mankind and Culture and how I probably shouldn't listen to her because she's out of touch--- so pitifully so the guitarist should make her into a hat.
3.
Never Will 02:55
she's a dance floor on the desert of a serperntine's spleen slidin smoothly like a bed post from a rapture unrehearsed she's a waitress plump and fiery in a canker-pink saloon tastin burn worms crawlin round her she's a ragamuffin spice (I've come for those dead worms foot and feet clawin bitin the battered hinges right off of Cymbelline's horse.) "Him, he comin, send cried-cries up to Custer, now!" warns Blink Tote, hangin hart high round the corner. "Him, he flimsy, he'd sweep you side, he'd swoop ya hind any sweet-melonned fancy maid," warns Blink Tote, pointin to a sweet-melonned fancy maid-a-brewin, she's-a-keepin a couple circles clean, ready for some Come-Forward. Now the heavy dumb brewster come forward with a blade spikin straight out from his tongue, humongous belly-warts the size of pin-cushions eatin at his knees comes to me with all the gaul of Saul, sayin: "Hey, shem, sham, yum, ya buttered fear, you none done be no good here, you'd best pound out beside or beneath the next plaid bounty, because we's about hood got ready to roll" and beside his cycle struts the waitress plump of ragamuffin spice, clingin to him like a damp doornail or a horse hoof heavin up a mudclot tryin to get somethin rumblin she knows she can't she no good and never will.
4.
she's a dance floor on the desert of a serperntine's spleen slidin smoothly like a bed post from a rapture unrehearsed she's a waitress plump and fiery in a canker-pink saloon tastin burn worms crawlin round her she's a ragamuffin spice (I've come for those dead worms foot and feet clawin bitin the battered hinges right off of Cymbelline's horse.) "Him, he comin, send cried-cries up to Custer, now!" warns Blink Tote, hangin hart high round the corner. "Him, he flimsy, he'd sweep you side, he'd swoop ya hind any sweet-melonned fancy maid," warns Blink Tote, pointin to a sweet-melonned fancy maid-a-brewin, she's-a-keepin a couple circles clean, ready for some Come-Forward. Now the heavy dumb brewster come forward with a blade spikin straight out from his tongue, humongous belly-warts the size of pin-cushions eatin at his knees comes to me with all the gaul of Saul, sayin: "Hey, shem, sham, yum, ya buttered fear, you none done be no good here, you'd best pound out beside or beneath the next plaid bounty, because we's about hood got ready to roll" and beside his cycle struts the waitress plump of ragamuffin spice, clingin to him like a damp doornail or a horse hoof heavin up a mudclot tryin to get somethin rumblin she knows she can't she no good and never will.
5.
ANYTHING FOR CAVIAR A.K.A. COUNTRY MUSIC MASQUERADING AS HEAVY METAL BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE DESTRUCTION ESTABLISHMENT Ernst was asked, earnestly, "Could you lift nine diamonds from me, your semi-fragrant cloth?" Ernst replied, "No, My Soutane" to the vestment that draped o'er his shoulder and navel so solemnly. "I haven't the precociousness for such a vain and ill-comprised endeavor." Michael, the interrogator, witnessed Ernst and responded with an empty sigh, packed his hopes in his strong leather coat, and made for the emergency exit. His mind was distracted. He pushed the door open as the bouncer approached him to tell him to use the other door. But it was too late. Michael's opening of the emergency door unleashed (via a long string) a choir of thirty-two piñatas, hidden above the dropped cieling (fire code). Soon the entire bar was dressed in cheap candy, some patrons slightly scathed. The bartender looked at Michael aghast, his expression saying: "You busted the Tomalin's great picnic prize, the one they've been preparing for years for the big production for when their daughter gets married." "Who's the Tomalin's?" Michael asked. The subsequent hush hinted to Michael that the Tomalins were not only the club's owners, but also that the Tomalins were in fact Mafia. Michael, fully understanding the Mafia, pretended to not know what was going on, dropped the subject, and ran to a corner of the bar to ensue his fake vomiting act. His depiction of the vomiting experience was so true-to-life (and he knew it) that all the weak-hearted believed him to be sick, and nonchalantly managed to refocus their attention to the T.V. playing Country Rock videos above the bar. The video playing was one of the then-new country legend hit phenomenon "Garth Brooks" and his two guitar players bashing guitars together. Michael, safe from punishment and no longer the center of attention, blossomed out of his cowering position to witness the crossover feat of the decade: Country Music masquerading as Heavy Metal brought to you by the Destruction Establishment. Michael's eyes widened. The End of the World is Coming, he thought to himself, so he screamed: "IS THAT ALL THERE IS?" (For a moment Peggy Lee's knowing smirk flashed in the minds of twelve of the tavern's patrons.) Michael cringed, mouth agape, mesmerized by the horrors. For sedation purposes, he tried to convince himself that the guitar bashing in the Garth Brooks video was an accident, an event spurted on by a deranged fan, or worse yet, a deranged publicist. Michael deemed it proper to sanction a minute to pray: To pray to realign this greasebin world, to pray to establish sixty seconds of relief against a dimeweed world, to pray that it's all a dream and no shots of Love are ever squandered by pigs who'd do anything for caviar. Ernst meanwhile (and erstwhile, too) sat oblivious at the end of the bar, delivered himself a mean bacon, sprinkled with toppings fresh from the City Zoo, and burped an ominous bile belch while asking the bartender for glue to affix his nine new diamonds to his soutane.
6.
Beat 03:51
BEAT Mine eyelids weigh heavy, a blanket of sores Like pockets pressed closed, pockmarked sockets of pores Mine muscles weep weary from pacing this cage Mine eardrums ring shrill to remind me my age Mine nose stings of pollen spores sporting small swords Mine feet, callous-carved, ache from fighting floorboards Mine hair's parting plastered in nine oily chunks Mine shirt sends a scent that could charm sixty skunks Mine legs lug like iron behind my corpse ghost Mine breath bathes my tongue with the taste of tar toast Mine heart, hard and beat, barely pumps out its pay Mine lungs rent umbrellas to push flesh away Mine bladder enbalmed, bloating full at its seems Is the only one here who has wind left for screams I'm beat, and I'm battered, I'm bitten, half-dead I'm bent, and I'm bitter, fugoff, I'm goin ta bed.
7.
GIRL ON THE SCREEN I need you bland and perfect like the girl on the screen I need you wide-eyed perfect like the girl in those jeans I need you curved, all perfect yeah, you know what I mean I can't love you til you're perfect like the girl on the screen Push yer boobs fault-forward with that mezcaline milk Chalk full of chalk jizzy yet softer than silk Squeeze yer tight skirt at me cause that means that I'm great Gimme high-heeled flimsy It's yer strength that I hate I need you bland and perfect like the girl on the screen I need you blue-eyed perfect like the hot magazine I need you dumb and perfect can you stay seventeen? I can't want you til you're perfect like the girl on the screen Undulate in that movie Can I watch you get laid? I'm convinced you're really horny though I know you're just paid I'll scheme to be inside you from the womb to the grave Why it is once I get some later on I still crave? I need you bland and perfect like the girl on the screen I need you blind and perfect and a willing machine I need you looking perfect or I'm bound to get mean I can't love you til you're perfect like the girl on the screen.
8.
Ol' Black Woman Jazz Singer Dressed to the Nearest Hilt in her Flowery Crochet Spangly Dress Beads on her Neck Joint Gold Timex Tingling Through the Tints and Tinges Good Gawdy Rings Blue Eye Shadow Ol' Black Woman Overweight Jazz Singer Wails her Tall Heart into a Microphone That is Having Technical Difficulties In and Out Goes the Sound of her Voice She doesn't Know What's Wrong with the Microphone She does Know That She Wants to Sing All her Favorite Songs Ol' Black Woman Jazz Singer Stares with Brown on Orange Eyeballs All Bloodshot Out the Taxi Window Kleenex Dabs Ol' Black Woman Jazz Singer Eats at her Only Good Table in her Apartment Listens to a Radio That Has and has Always Had Technical Difficulties In and Out Goes the Station She doesn't Know What's Wrong Ol' Black Woman Jazz Singer Thinks She Has Diarrhea.
9.
WHEN LORD MONGREL MUSES O, How can I not, with these blue bellies bursting (with blue bellies bursting through balustrade's barrel, with corpuscle's chorus in consonant carol), sing hymns of unending impending imperil that dress all the despots in jester's apparel? I can't. For when Lord Mongrel muses, with song full with trumpets and drums: It seems ev'ry word that I utter is wrong; all my fingers are thumbs; ev'ry pleasure I feel is pain; ev'ry pearl that I prize is plain. How can I stay silent with ne'er-do-wells nursing (with ne'er-do-wells nursing) on naughahyde polyp with feet poised and panting and waiting to crawl up on bomb-bitten breasts to deliver a whallop to any soul doling out less than a dollop? I can. For when Lord Mongrel muses, with fists, I clamp down all my birds. He kills. With his tongue like a jack-knife he twists any Sword into Words. Ev'ry pearl that I prize is plain; Ev'ry poet I praise: inane. How can I abstain with my head still immersing (my head still immersing) in poppycock acid, that backwash of crook's tears from Pieties Flaccid employed to make demonic killers seem placid which ages and cures to a digestive rancid? I can. For when Lord Mongrel muses, with teeth sawed or broken in shards, All trite, verseless curses I've hid far beneath all get blessed by his bards. Ev'ry poet I praise (is) inane; Ev'ry Christ that I kiss is Cain.
10.
Bitches 03:12
BITCHES Sam was fiddlin around with his boots on the porch of Wilmer's Bar tryin to fix em so they hit the ground harder made a bigger noise then his wife came up drivin drivin his three kids well up to Wilmer's Bar and she saw him she rolled down the window said "Sam what a rotten lush you is" she reminded him how he forgot about takin the kids to the County Fair she asked him how many beers he'd had and why he was playin with his shoes in that fashion and before Sam could respond she said "nevermind" and floored that station wagon threw in the air a modest cloud of dust and gravel and almost started to cry a bit Sam shrugged his shoulders and wiped pit sweat from under his tank top shirt and said to Bob sittin next to him sumpin like "she's just a bitch" Sam slipped his hand near his crotch to pretend to have a scratch to itch so that Bob wouldnt think nothin of it Bob pretty much thought little of it And Bob scratched his dick as well and said "Shit." "Women." or "Bitches." summer 1984
11.
Satan's just a frat jock with a fat cock who wants to fuck the world like it's a cheap drunk girl for seven years Why, it's just been foreplay for the last 7,000 (a real man!) And he's just brimming with desire that's been sup- pressed eternally and burns infernally in his fat cock He's just a frat jock who wants to fuck the world like it's a cheap drunk girl And be blind to the possibility of impregnating that already poisoned bitch/whore That doesn't even cross his mind when he's primed and ready to unwind on the world We are the world. We are the world. Fuck us. Fuck us. Satan.

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released May 17, 1994

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Bongo Fury Boston, Massachusetts

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