Long before a garden stood on this site This was the district that thrives in the night A hidden hovel of vice and deceit These ruins would never be a landmark And all the creatures that dwelled in its dark They were the finest flower, they were the elite Flower and elite of the underground Hustlers and losers and roustabouts Beggars united in damage and strife Broken down racehorses, deviants galore Not to mention a cut-rate troubadour A shipwreck clinging onto his guitar for dear life Adopted by this tender underworld There flourished a precious pixie of a girl Tucked in the heart of this unholy mess Since she’d been found by a dry riverbed Cradled in finest silks and left for dead Soon she was known all around by the name of “princess” One fine night, so help us, oh holy Ghost She slinks in his room and she takes off her coat She crawls on his lap after closing the door Blushing a little she says with a sigh “It’s you that I love and you may if you like Kiss me on the mouth and then do even more.” “Hold it there, Princess, that’s not my style I don’t have the makings of a pedophile You’re only thirteen, and I’m almost thirty years old That’s a big difference and I don’t see the point Of spending the rest of my days in the joint "She answers “It’s OK, I will not tell a soul.” “Don’t push it, girl” comes his mocking reply “First off you’re not my type and besides My heart already belongs to a woman.” So Princess burst into tears as she fled So Princess ran as she bitterly wept Feeling the burning sting of her first rejection Corruption of a minor did not take place The singer, at dawn, without leaving a trace Made his escape in the broken down cart Of an old farmhand, while strumming a tune. Twenty years later, passing by the same room He feels a twinge of regret deep down in his heart

To die for your ideas, an excellent idea One time I almost died for lack of having it When all the teeming hordes who had it before me Ran screaming to my door in a murderous fit My muse eventually caved in to their request Lamenting her mistakes, she rallied for their cause With just a whisper of regret giving her pause Let’s die for our ideas, but make it a slow death OK, make it a slow, slow death Seeing as we are free to linger in this life Let’s take our own sweet time reaching the afterglow For, if we hurry up, we might actually die For an idea that’s out of fashion tomorrow Yet, if there’s one thing sure to make you feel depressed It is to realize upon your dying day That you took the wrong path, that you made a mistake Let’s die for our ideas, but make it a slow death OK, make it a slow, slow death The fundamentalists who cry the martyr’s cry Are usually the ones who linger on this earth To die for their ideals, for whatever it’s worth Is their main obsession, it motivates their life In almost every camp, every holy domain These are the ones who will outlive Methuselem Which leads me to conclude their favorite refrain’s Let’s die for our ideas, but make it a slow death OK, make it a slow, slow death Ideas which demand the famous sacrifice Are endlessly revived by sects of every stripe And every new victim wonders before he dies To die for an idea is lovely, but which type? And since they’re all about the same in most respects The wise man, when he sees their mighty banners wave Will always hesitate, as he sidesteps the grave Let’s die for our ideas, but make it a slow death OK, make it a slow, slow death If a few killing fields, a few communal graves Were all it took to do the trick once and for all With all the nights of terror, all the heads that fall You’d think by now the whole world would be saved Alas, the golden age is constantly delayed The gods are thirsty yet, they’re never satisfied So death and death resumes, and still more people die Let’s die for our ideas, but make it a slow death OK, make it a slow, slow death Oh all you firebrands, all you fishers of men Please be the first to die, we’ll get out of your way But, for the love of god, let the rest of us live Life is the last luxury left us anyway The reaper is a crafty type and needs no help No need to speed his work by sharpening his blade So stop your dance of death, you’re only giving aid Let’s die for our ideas, but make it a slow death OK, make it a slow, slow death

You, the cricket of the hearth, you the ideal spouse You with nary a snag in your nuptial blouse Intractable Penelope As you follow your safe, innocent happiness Do you not entertain, in your honorable breast Some sweetly interloping dreams? Some sweetly interloping dreams? Shielded by your curtains, in your proper milieu You await a suburban Ulysses’ return Bent to your linen concentration In the night when your soul feels melancholy’s dread Have you not dreamt of skies seen from another bed And counted a new constellation? And counted a new constellation? Have you never called out in your thoughts undeclared For the meaningless fling that pulls you by the hair And whispers sweet nothings in your face And plants wild daisies in your vegetable plot The forbidden fruit on the old orchard lot And chaos in your silken lace? And chaos in your silken lace? Have you not wished to meet in passing once again This angel, this demon, who with his bow in hand Lets his malignant arrows fly Who returns woman’s flesh to the coldest statues Upends their pedestals and upsets their virtue And rips their leaf right off the vine? And rips their leaf right off the vine? Do not fear that the sky will hold you to account There’s not enough room here to swing a heart around Beating a path to a distant fields It’s the venial sin, the communal disgrace It’s the dark hidden side of the honeymoon’s face The ransom of Penelope The ransom of Penelope

Glory to him who steps hard on his brakes for fear Of squashing a hedgehog or unsuspecting deer And glory to Don Juan for having smiled upon This unappealing girl who no one seemed to want She’s a very nasty girl, I gotta have her now Glory to the cop who made all the traffic wait To let the poet’s cats walk back under the gate And glory to Don Juan who made a rendezvous With this rejected wretch that no love ever knew She’s a very nasty girl, I gotta have her now Glory to the good man who doesn’t sing along When the demented mob cries out to lynch someone And glory to Don Juan for his sweet ovations To she who no-one had ever propositioned She’s a very nasty girl, I gotta have her now And glory to the priest who gave his foes rescue During the massacre of St. Bartholomew And glory to Don Juan who kissed the blushing face Of she who’d lived without a single warm embrace She’s a very nasty girl, I gotta have her now Glory to the G.I. who threw away his gun Rather than have to shoot a prisoner on the run And glory to Don Juan for having stroked the thigh Of the old maid who’d never even kissed a guy She’s a very nasty girl, I gotta have her now Glory to the nun who, in winter’s deepest freeze Defrosted the penis of the poor amputee And glory to Don Juan for his fond attention To a neglected ass only used for sitting She’s a very nasty girl I gotta have her now Glory to the man who, having no sacred mores Contents himself with not pissing off his neighbors And glory to Don Juan who brought the carnal sin To she who, God forbid, would have died a virgin She’s a very nasty girl, I gotta have her now

This is the song I sing for you Humble man of the country who Gave me some wood to warm my bones When all in my life had grown cold You who gave me some fire when Decent ladies and gentlemen All of the well-intentioned folks Had slammed shut their doors in my nose It may have been just a small fire But still it warmed me to my core And it burns in me evermore As bright as a festive bonfire You, my good man, when you go away When the undertaker takes your remains May he drive you across the skies to eternal life This is the song I sing for you You the humble hostess who Gave me four pieces of bread when My rations had grown awful thin You who opened your cupboard when Decent ladies and gentlemen All of the well-intentioned folks Considered my fasting a joke It was just bread, a tiny piece But still it warmed me to my core And it burns in me evermore As grand as a sumptuous feast You, humble hostess, when you go When the undertaker takes your bones May he drive you across the skies to eternal life This is the song I sing for you Unassuming stranger who Gave me a sad and knowing grin When the chief of police took me in You who did not clap your hands when Decent ladies and gentlemen All of the well-intentioned folks Laughed as I went in the yoke It may have been just a small smile But still it warmed me to my core And it burns in me evermore As hot as the summer sunshine You, dear stranger, when you go away When the undertaker takes your remains May he drive you across the skies to eternal life

The woman who possesses all the treasures To offer up a taste of carnal pleasures The woman who inspires brutal passions and enthralls The woman’s sentimental above all Romantic promenades and gentle murmurs Love letters, serenades and pretty flowers All the petty crimes that her eyes push us to fulfill May move her, but still Ninety-five percent of the time Fucking bores her out of her mind Whether she denies it or speaks It’s not every day someone spreads opens her cheeks The poor fools who think otherwise Will be cuckolds all of their lives When it’s time to work the flesh She is very often depressed If she hears no beating heart Her body will not play the part Only when she loves with tenderness is She sensitive to his gentle caresses Always so well disposed, enthusiastic and heroic She’s bored to tears and doesn’t even know it When her desires are verging on demonic Or when her nymphomania becomes chronic That’s when she gives her man Who can hardly believe his luck One amazing fuck Ninety-five percent of the time Fucking bores her out of her mind Whether she denies it or speaks It’s not every day someone spreads opens her cheeks The poor fools who think otherwise Will be cuckolds all of their lives When it’s time to work the flesh She is very often depressed If she hears no beating heart Her body will not play the part All the “oh yeahs” the “mores” the “give it to mes” That she cries out to simulate her swooning Are simply charity, the holy angel’s blissful sighs Are actually nothing more than pious lies Their only use it to convince her beau, yeah That he’s the most amazing Romeo, yeah So this pretentious cock, Stupidly perched on her backside Will not lose his pride Ninety-five percent of the time Fucking bores her out of her mind Whether she denies it or speaks It’s not every day someone spreads opens her cheeks The poor fools who think otherwise Will be cuckolds all of their lives When it’s time to work the flesh She is very often depressed If she hears no beating heart Her body will not play the part I hear the endless boasting saber rattles Of those who take tours of Cythera’s castles It’s only because you are so clumsy and inept in fact That she keeps her composure so intact But if you find the bragging aggravating Of Mr. Watch-me-while-I’m-copulating Ladies, while on your back Why don’t you take a little rest And sing under your breath Ninety-five percent of the time Fucking bores her out of her mind Whether she denies it or speaks It’s not every day someone spreads opens her cheeks The poor fools who think otherwise Will be cuckolds all of their lives When it’s time to work the flesh She is very often depressed If she hears no beating heart Her body will not play the part

Never had I once taken off my hat For any cause Now I creep around and sit on her lap Each time she calls I was a mad dog and she let me eat Out of her hand Now I have a mouth full of baby teeth Instead of fangs I made myself small in front of a doll Who falls asleep with her eyes shut I made myself small in front of a doll Who calls out mama every time she’s touched I was a tough piece of steak up until She came around Up until I fell tender, hot and still Into her mouth Flashing all those pearly whites when she smiles And when she sings But beware her fangs when she shows her ire When she’s unhinged Now I watch my step, following the rules Of her domain Though her jealousy has no normal use For self-restraint Once a periwinkle diverted my gaze As we strolled So this pretty flower met her demise By parasol All the sleepwalking fortune tellers warned Me without spite That upon the cross of her outstretched arms Would end my life There are better ones and there are worse things But, all in all What’s the difference where the scaffold swings If one must fall

Businessmen, Philistines While you fondle and you squeeze Your wives As you dream of the tykes That your grossest appetites Engender You think “They will become Freshly shaven and rotund Accountants” But your full punishment Is to witness the advent On earth Of unwanted progeny Who in time become hairy Poets

I lived all by myself, far from the public scene Contemplative, covert, bucolic and serene Unwilling to give up the high ransom of fame Sleeping on my laurels just like a swaddled babe The people who know best helped me to understand That I still owed a debt unto the common man And under pain of failure and obscurity I had to publicly air my dirty laundry Oh trumpets of fortune and fame Your song is a hard one to play! Ignoring even the most basic modesty Must I, to fan the flames of crass publicity Divulge with whom and in which exact positions I dive into debauchery and fornication If I publish the names, will these Penelopes Instantly be recast as hardcore libertines How many faithful friends will give me evil stares How many shotgun blasts will be I be forced to bear I shun even the most discrete exhibition My modesty assumes neurotic proportions I choose to show my reproductive organs to No one besides my wife and a doctor or two Must I, to satisfy the hungry scandal sheet Beat the drum with my genitals out on the street And ostentatiously display them to the crowd Just like the choirboys holding the holy shroud A woman of the world who lets me come and go As often I please through her noble abode Passed cunningly to me, upon her silk divan A nasty parasite of lowest echelan Under pretext of hype, of clamoring for fame Do I have any right to tarnish her good name By shouting from the rooftops and the taxicabs “Madame the marquise gave me a case of crabs!” The sky be praised, I live in perfect harmony With Father Flanagan and all the singing priests He is a pious man, I am an atheist I let him say Amen while I say “holy shit” Should I conspire to make it known to the press That I surprised him at the knees of my mistress Intoning a sweet psalm in lisping undertones While she was hunting lice in his hair with a comb I wonder, holy cow, who do I have to shtup To make the goddess of a hundred mouths speak up Does a celebrity, a diva, or a star Have to jump in my arms and replace my guitar To bring excitement to the public and the hacks Who’ll let me do some push-ups on her lower back Who’ll let me do some hiking, dressed like a nudist And mountaineering upon her Mound of Venus Would these trumpets divine more gloriously sound If I was slightly queer like everyone around If I pranced all about like a Mademoiselle And suddenly took on the airs of a gazelle But I’m not sure there’s any profit, truth be told In playing love’s charade by reversing the roles I doubt it adds an ounce of gold to my renown The crime of pederasty no longer astounds After this whirlwind tour of countless recipes Designed to get me into the gossip magazines I’d rather stick to my first method, all along I’d rather scratch my belly and keep singing songs For if the people ask, I’ll sing them, hardy-har But if they don’t I’ll put them back in my guitar Unwilling to give up the high ransom of fame I’ll sleep on my laurels just like a swaddled babe Oh trumpets of fortune and fame Your song is a hard one to play

People who see upside-down Think the benches around The sidewalks and the streets Are made only for the impotent or the obese But it’s an absurdity For in reality These venerable seats Are there to accommodate young lovers when they meet Young lovers kissing on park benches publicly Publicly, publicly Not giving the slightest damn for the Honest people’s stares Young lovers kissing on park benches publicly Publicly, publicly Saying “I love you” pathetically Look pretty nice, if you ask me As they sit there holding hands They speak of future plans Of sky blue wallpaper That will dress the pretty walls of their nuptial bedside They see what tomorrow knows He’s smoking while she sews Their happiness assured While they contemplate the naming of their first-born child When the noble what’s-their-names Happen to contemplate Two of these so-and-sos They don’t hesitate to toss out some venomous names Though the entire family clan The mom, the girl, the dad The son the Holy Ghost Wouldn’t mind once in a while behaving just the same When the heady months have ceased When they will have appeased All of their burning dreams When their sky grows heavy with the darkening clouds above They will sadly come to see That it was on these streets Upon these famous seats That they lived the greatest moments of their budding love

Without her flying tresses I would have, heretofore Had quite a hard time guessing From which way the wind blows Absolutely nothing should be thrown away On a desert island all of her must stay I wonder how I ever Survived without her cheeks That fed me two red apples On each day of the week Without her throat, my head Deprived of its pillow Would have no other bed Besides the dirty floor Without her solid carriage What would happen, who knows If I should lose my bearings And need a hand to hold? She has a thousand other Most precious attributes But on the stage, I’d rather Not show them all to you The charms of my love are Many, but the masses Must go somewhere else for Anatomy classes In fact, this is her weakness She loves her bones a lot She’d never acquiesce To be cut into parts She’s not a little proud And also ticklish, quite And one must take the lot Or leave her all behind Absolutely nothing should be thrown away On a desert island all of her must stay

When I was just a little lad My fear of swearing was so bad That even if I thought the word “shit” I never uttered it, But Now that I earn my daily wage Ranting and raving from the stage “Shit” never stays inside my head Instead it’s said I’m the pornographer of the phonograph, sir The perverted son of the sing-along To titilate the balcony I spew all kinds of infamy Mouthfulls of raw and trashy French That don’t make any sense, but When I’m back home under my roof I blame my soul with much reproof And cry “You twisted little elf Go fuck yourself” Every Sunday I’m in the booth Confessing all my words uncouth Giving the priest my solemn prayer To hide my derriere, but Fearing if I clean up my show I’ll end up singing on skid row I’m back up on stage pretty fast Showing my ass My wife, to put it mildly Has a certain proclivity That makes her like to lay in the nude With just any old dude, But In all sincerity, how may I speak about this on the stage If I can’t tell you that she’s got Fire in her twat? Surely I’d gain much satisfaction Even a medal for my actions Singing with fervor of the love Reserved for God above, But My angel told me from her cloud “Singing of love is not allowed Unless that love describes the lore Of a filthy whore” And when I elegantly play For the boss of a cabaret Some pretty tune pulled from my vest It just leaves him depressed, And Holding back tears, he begs of me “If you sing flowers’ majesty For pity’s sake please let them grow In a bordello Every evening before I eat I sit out on my balcony Eyeing the gentle folks below In the setting sun’s glow, But Don’t ask me to compose a poem If it would upset you to know That I like watching every day Cunts on parade All the good souls with righteous hearts Are glad to know that when I depart Satan will make a shishkabob Of this foul-mouthed slob, But May the Lord in his omnipotence For whom words make no difference Admit into that shining tower On that somber hour Me, the pornographer of the phonograph, sir The perverted son of the sing-along

In my corner of the nation I have a bad reputation Whether I speak or I shut up They treat me like a you-know-what Yet I do no damage to anyone Following the road of the simpleton But good folks don’t appreciate Someone whose path may deviate No good folks don’t appreciate Someone whose path may deviate Everyone likes to curse at me Except the mutes, obviously The morning of Independence Day My cozy bed is where I lay The music of the marching bands Doesn’t impress me worth a damn Yet I mean no one any harm at all When I shut my ears to the bugle call But good folks don’t appreciate Someone whose path may deviate No good folks don’t appreciate Someone whose path may deviate They point the finger right at me Except of course the amputees When I cross a thief on the run Chased by angry Farmer John I stick my foot out as they pass And Farmer John lands on his ass Yet it’s not my wish to cause any grief By championing the cause of the petty thief But good folks don’t appreciate Someone whose path may deviate No good folks don’t appreciate Someone whose path may deviate The mob will chase me with their flames Except of course for all the lame No need to be Jeremy To see where my story leads If they find a suitable rope They will slip it around my throat Yet I do no damage to beast or man When I shun the paths to the Vatican But good folks don’t appreciate Someone whose path may deviate No good folks don’t appreciate Someone whose path may deviate The world will watch my hanging day Except the blind, or so they say