Poetry

Stuff we like:

Genius

by Warren Zevon and Larry Klein

I’ve got a bitter pot of je ne sais quoi
Guess what–I’m stirring it with a monkey’s paw
Since I saw you coming out of my barber’s shop
In that skimpy little halter top

Did you light the candles? Did you put on “Kind of Blue?”
Did you use that Ivy League voodoo on him, too?
He thinks he’ll be alright but he doesn’t know for sure
Like every other unindicted co-conspirator

Mata Hari had a house in France
Where she worked on all her secret plans
Men were falling for her sight unseen
She was a genius

There’s a a face in every window of the Songwriters’ Neighborhood
Everybody’s your best friend when you’re doing well–I mean good
The poet who lived next door when you were young and poor
Grew up to be a backstabbing entrepreneur

Albert Einstein was a ladies’ man
While he was working on his universal plan
He was making out like Charlie Sheen
He was a genius

When you dropped me and you staked your claim
On a V.I.P. who could make your name
You latched on to him and I became
A minor inconvenience
Your protégé don’t care about art
I’m the one who always told you you were smart
You broke my heart into smithereens
And that took genius

You and the barber make a handsome pair
Guess what–I never liked the way he cut your hair
I didn’t like the way he turned your head
But there’s nothing I can do or say I haven’t done or said

Everybody needs a place to stand
And a method for their schemes and scams
If I could only get my record clean
I’d be a genius

The Sun Began To Rain

By Larry Norman

A thief fell out of heaven with some loaded dice
But the lamb rolled a seven back to paradise.
The bread was finally leavened so I had a slice
And the sun began to rain.

Water swelled from fountains and then turned to wine,
Rocks fell from the mountains in a chorus line;
He came in tails and top hat and He looked so fine,
And the Son began to reign.

A fox snuck in to steal away the grapes,
But the man who ran the vineyard closed the gate,
So he could not escape.

And now we’ll live forever in another land,
Everything is happening like it first was planned.
Did you get your invitation to come play in the band
And let the Son begin to reign

9mm and a Three Piece Suit

by Catch-22 — who make KillRadio seem kinda silly, imo.

Well I know I shouldn’t care but I do and I don’t
And I always crack a smile when I see your punk rock clothes
And you try try but you never fit in and
You’re never going to so pack it up pack it in, so there…

Steve took three or four Heather took more.
Lit a cigarette and now they’re walkin’ out the door
With a semi automatic and a ski mask on
They look to one another and they say to themselves “What fun”.

Well I never want to bother and I never want to hover
Over his or her affairs because THAT’S NOT FAIR
And it seems to me that you’re running out of time
And it seems to me like you’re never going to do what’s right

Jack dropped 21, Jill 22.
The look in his eye said “Brother whatcha going to do
With a 9mm and a three piece suit?”
They look to one another and say “hey motherfucker,
Who’s the fool?”

Steve took three or four Heather took more.
Lit a cigarette and now they’re walkin’ out the door
With a semi automatic and a ski mask on
They look to one another and they say to themselves “What fun”.

Jack dropped 21, Jill 22.
The look in his eye said “Brother whatcha going to do
With a 9mm and a three piece suit?”
They look to one another and say “hey motherfucker,
Who’s the fool?”

Terence, This is Stupid Stuff

by A. E. Housman (1859-1936)

“Terence, this is stupid stuff:
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, ’tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.
Pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping, melancholy, mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.”

Why, if ’tis dancing you would be
There’s brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hopyards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh, many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God’s ways to man.
Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world’s not.
And faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past:
The mischief is that ’twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie god knows where,
And carried half-way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I’ve lain,
Happy, ’til I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.

Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure
Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure,
I’d face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good.
‘Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale
Is not so brisk a brew as ale:
Out of a stem that scored the hand
I wrung it in a weary land.
But take it: if the smack is sour,
The better for the embittered hour;
It should do good to heart and head
When your soul is in my soul’s stead;
And I will friend you, if I may,
In the dark and cloudy day.

There was a king reigned in the East:
There, when kings will sit to feast,
They get their fill before they think
With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.
He gathered all that springs to birth
From the many-venomed earth;
First a little, thence to more,
He sampled all her killing store;
And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,
Sate the king when healths went round.
They put arsenic in his meat
And stared aghast to watch him eat;
They poured strychnine in his cup
And shook to see him drink it up:
They shook, they stared as white’s their shirt:
Them it was their poison hurt.

I tell the tale that I heard told.
Mithridates, he died old.

Skyline Pigeon

– Bernie Taupin

Turn me loose from your hands
Let me fly to distant lands
Over green fields, trees and mountains
Flowers and forest fountains
Home along the lanes of the skyway

For this dark and lonely room
Projects a shadow cast in gloom
And my eyes are mirrors
Of the world outside
Thinking of the way
That the wind can turn the tide
And these shadows turn
From purple into grey

For just a Skyline Pigeon
Dreaming of the open
Waiting for the day
He can spread his wings
And fly away again
Fly away skyline pigeon fly
Towards the dreams
You’ve left so very far behind

Just let me wake up in the morning
To the smell of new mown hay
To laugh and cry, to live and die
In the brightness of my day

I want to hear the pealing bells
Of distant churches sing
But most of all please free me
From this aching metal ring
And open out this cage towards the sun

My Ride’s Here

by Warren Zevon and Paul Muldoon

I was staying at the Marriott
With Jesus and John Wayne
I was waiting for a chariot
They were waiting for a train
The sky was full of carrion
“I’ll take the mazuma”
Said Jesus to Marion
“That’s the 3:10 to Yuma
My ride’s here…”

The Houston sky was changeless
We galloped through bluebonnets
I was wrestling with an angel
You were working on a sonnet
You said, “I believe the seraphim
Will gather up my pinto
And carry us away, Jim
Across the San Jacinto
My ride’s here…”

Shelley and Keats were out in the street
And even Lord Byron was leaving for Greece
While back at the Hilton, last but not least
Milton was holding his sides
Saying, “You bravos had better be
ready to fight
Or we’ll never get out of East Texas tonight
The trail is long and the river is wide
And my ride’s here”

I was staying at the Westin
I was playing to a draw
When in walked Charlton Heston
With the Tablets of the Law
He said, “It’s still the Greatest Story”
I said, “Man, I’d like to stay
But I’m bound for glory
I’m on my way
My ride’s here…

Heffalumps And Woozles

They’re black, they’re brown
they’re up, they’re down
they’re in, they’re out
they’re all about
they’re far, they’re near
they’re gone, they’re here
they’re quick and slick
they’re insincere

Beware, Beware
Be a very wary bear

A heffalump or woozle
is very confuzle
a heffalump or woozle’s very sly, sly, sly, sly
They come in ones and twoozles
but if they so choozles
before your eyes you’ll see them multiply, ply, ply, ply

They’re extraordinary, so better bewary
because they come in every shape and size, size, size, size
If honey’s what you covet
you’ll find that they love it
because they’ll guzzle up the thing you prize!

Beware, Beware
be a very wary bear

They’re extraordinary
so better bewary
because they come in every shape and size, size, size, size
if honey’s what you covet
you’ll find that they love it
because they’ll guzzle up the thing you prize!

they’re black, they’re brown
they’re up, they’re down
they’re in, they’re out
they’re all about
they’re far, they’re near
they’re gone, they’re hear
they’re quick and slick
they’re insincere

Beware, Beware, Beware, Beware, Beware !

This song has no title

- Bernie Taupin

Tune me in to the wild side of life
I’m an innocent young child sharp as a knife
Take me to the garretts where the artists have died
Show me the courtrooms where the judges have lied

Let me drink deeply from the water and the wine
Light coloured candles in dark dreary mines
Look in the mirror and stare at myself
And wonder if that’s really me on the shelf

And each day I learn just a little bit more
I don’t know why but I do know what for
If we’re all going somewhere let’s get there soon
Oh this song’s got no title just words and a tune

Take me down alleys where the murders are done
In a vast high powered rocket to the core of the sun
Want to read books in the studies of men
Born on the breeze and die on the wind

If I was an artist who paints with his eyes
I’d study my subject and silently cry
Cry for my darkness to come down on me
For confusion to carry on turning the wheel

Veracruz

– Warren Zevon

I heard Woodrow Wilson’s guns
I heard Maria crying
Late last night I heard the news
That Veracruz was dying
Veracruz was dying

Someone called Maria’s name
I swear it was my father’s voice
Saying, “If you stay you’ll all be slain
You must leave now – you have no choice
Take the servants and ride west
Keep the child close to your chest
When the American troops withdraw
Let Zapata take the rest”

I heard Woodrow Wilson’s guns
I heard Maria calling
Saying, “Veracruz is dying
And Cuernavaca’s falling”

Aquel dia yo jure
Hacia el puerto volvere
Aunque el destino cambio mi vida
En Veracruz morire
Aquel dia yo jure

I heard Woodrow Wilson’s guns
I heard them in the harbor
Saying, “Veracruz is dying”

Cut my hair

-The Who

Why should I care
If I have to cut my hair?
I’ve got to move with the fashions
Or be outcast.
I know I should fight
But my old man he’s really alright,
And I’m still living at home
Even though it won’t last.

Zoot suit, white jacket with side vents
Five inches long.
I’m out on the street again
And I’m leaping along.
I’m dressed right for a beach fight,
But I just can’t explain
Why that uncertain feeling is still
Here in my brain.

The kids at school
Have parents that seem so cool.
And though I don’t want to hurt them
Mine wont me their way.
I clean my room and my shoes
But my mother found a box of blues,
And there doesn’t seem much hope
They’ll let me stay.

Zoot suit, etc.

Why do I have to be different to them?
Just to earn the respect of a dance hall friend,
We have the same old row, again and again.
Why do I have to move with a crowd
Of kids that hardly notice I’m around,
I work myself to death just to fit in.

I’m coming down
Got home on the very first train from town.
My dad just left for work
He wasn’t talking.
It’s all a game,
‘Cos inside I’m just the same,
My fried egg makes me sick
First thing in the morning.

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