Lord Mongrel is Dying

by Bongo Fury

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03:51
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03:12
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credits

released May 17, 1994

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Track Name: The Gods, Distressed, Revoke Idolatry...
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
Track Name: Pearl Jam Bought My Hair
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.
Track Name: Never Will
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.
Track Name: Palomino Pal-o-mine
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.
Track Name: Anything for Caviar, a.k.a. Country Music Masquerading as Heavy Metal (brought to you by the Destruction Establishment)
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.
Track Name: Beat
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.
Track Name: Girl on the Screen
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.
Track Name: Ol' Black Woman Jazz Singer
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.
Track Name: when Lord Mongrel muses
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.
Track Name: Bitches
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
Track Name: Satan's just a Frat Jock
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.