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