Joe's Garage Acts II
& III
Eventually it was discovered
That God
Did not want us to be
All the same
This was
Bad News
For the Governments of The World
As it seemed contrary
To the doctrine of
Portion Controlled Servings
Mankind must be made more uniformly
If
The Future
Was going to work
Various ways were sought
To bind us all together
But, alas
Same-ness was unenforceable
It was about this time
That someone
Came up with the idea of
Total Criminalization
Based on the principle that
If we were All crooks
We could at last be uniform
To some degree
In the eyes of
The Law
Shrewdly our legislators calculated
That most people were
Too lazy to perfom a
Real Crime
So new laws were manufactured
Making it possible for anyone
To violate them any time of the day or night,
And
Once we had all broken some kind of law
We'd all be in the same big happy club
Right up there with the President,
The most exalted industrialists,
And the clerical big shots
Of all your favorite religions
Total Criminalization
Was the greatest idea of its time
And was vastly popular
Except with those people
Who didn't want to be crooks or outlaws,
So, of course, they had to be
Tricked Into It . . .
Which is one of the reasons why
Music
Was eventually made
Illegal.
ACT II
SCENE NINE
A Token Of My Extreme
Arriving at L. RON HOOVER's modernistic
office/cathedral/warehouse/condominium complex, JOE is greeted by a
pre-recorded message and a dramatically illuminated image on a wall-sized
TV screen . . .
L. RON HOOVER:
Welcome to the First Church of Appliantology! The WHITE ZONE is for loading
and unloading only!
Don't you be Tarot-fied
It's just a token of my extreme
Don't you be Tarot-fied
It's just a token of my extreme
Don't you never try to look behind my eyes
You don't wanna know what they have seen
Don't you never try to look behind my eyes
You don't wanna know what they have seen
JOE:
(Thinking to himself)
Some people think
That if they go too far
They'll never get back
To where the rest of them are
I might be crazy
But there's one thing I know
You might be surprised
At what you find out when ya go!
And thus, having rationalized his expedition to L. RON's modernistic
office/cathedral/warehouse/condominium complex, JOE seeks The Answer to his
problem . . .
JOE:
Oh, oh oh
Mystical Advisor
What is my problem, tell me
Can you see?
L. RON HOOVER:
Well, you have nothing to fear, my son
You are a latent appliance fetishist
It appears to me!
JOE:
That all seems very, very strange
I never craved a toaster
Or a color TV
L. RON HOOVER:
A Latent Appliance Fetishist
Is a person who refuses to admit to his or herself
That sexual gratification can only be acheived
Through the use of MACHINES . . .
Get the picture?
JOE:
Are you telling me I should come out of the closet now
Mr. Ron?
L. RON HOOVER:
No, my son!
You must go into
THE CLOSET
JOE:
What?
L. RON HOOVER:
And you will have
A lot of fun!
That's where they all live
So if you want an
Appliance to love you
You'll have to go in there
'N get you one
JOE:
Well . . . that seems simple enough . . .
L. RON HOOVER:
Yes, but if you want a really GOOD one
You'll have to learn a foreign language . . .
JOE:
German, for instance?
L. RON HOOVER:
That's right . . .
A lot of really cute ones come from over there!
(Fifty bucks, please)
And a cheerful group of Appliantologists dance
into the room wearing
aluminum foil lab smocks, lock arms in a circle around JOE, making
sure
that he pays in full, all the while singing with L. RON as he delivers his
final instructions . . .
L. RON HOOVER:
If you been
Mod-O-fied
It's an illusion, an' yer in between
Don't you be
Tarot-fied
It's just a lot of nothin'
So what can it mean?
If you been
Mod-O-fied
It's an illusion, an' yer in between
Don't you be
Tarot-fied
It's just a lot of nothin'
So what can it mean?
(etc., etc., etc.)
SCENE TEN
Stick It Out
JOE leaves the First Church of Appliantology and sets out to try L. RON's
expensive advice
CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:
This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . . Joe
has just learned to speak
German. Now get this, here's why he did it! He's gonna go to this club on
the other side of town called THE CLOSET .
. . And they got these
Appliances in there that really go for a guy dressed up like a housewife
who can speak German (you know what I mean) . . . so Joe's
learned how
to speak German, he goes into this place and he sees these little Kitchen
Machineries dancing around with each other, and he sees this one .
. .
that looks like it's a cross between an industrial vacuum cleaner
and a
chrome piggy-bank with marital aids stuck all over its body . . .
it's
really exciting . . . and when he sees it, he BURSTS INTO SONG . .
.
JOE:
Fick mich, du miserabler hurensohn
Fick mich, du miserabler hurensohn
Streck ihn aus
Streck aus deinem heisen gelockten
Streck ihn aus
Streck aus deinem heisen gelockten
Streck ihn aus
Streck aus deinem heisen gelockten
shwanz
Ah-ee-ahee-ahhhhh!
Mach es sehr schnell
Rein und raus
Magisches schwein
Mach es sehr schnell
Rein und raus
Magisches schwein
Bis er spritzt, spritzt, spritzt
Feuer!
Bis er spritzt, spritzt, spritzt
Feuer!
Aber beklecker nicht das Sofa, Sofa!
Aber beklecker nicht das Sofa, Sofa!
Aber beklecker nicht das Sofa, Sofa!
Aber beklecker nicht das Sofa, Sofa!
Stunned by JOE's command of its native tongue, a gleaming
model XQJ-37
nuclear-powered Pan-sexual Roto-Plooker named SY BORG (previously thought
to be the son of the lady who called the Police
on cut two, side I),
spindles over to JOE and says . . .
SY BORG:
Pick me . . . I'm clean . . . I am also programmed for conversational
English
This stuns JOE, who stands there speechless for a moment. Smitten by JOE's
animal magnetism, SY continues . . .
SY BORG:
May I have this dance?
And JOE, looking sharp in his housewife costume with the napkin on his head
and the yellow chiffon apron, responds boldly by repeating the
entreaty
originally delivered in Deutsch in its conversational English form, so that
his intentions regarding the Appliance will be made perfectly clear . . .
JOE:
I've got a better idea . . .
Fuck me, you ugly son of a bitch
You ugly son of a bitch
Fuck me, you ugly son of a bitch
Stick it out
Stick out your hot curly weenie
Stick it out
Stick out your hot curly weenie
Stick it out
Stick out your hot curly weenie
Weenie . . . weenie, weenie, weenie!
Make it go fast
In and out
Magical Pig
Make it go fast
In and out
Magical Pig
Till it squirts, squirts, squirts, squirts
Fire
Till it squirts, squirts, squirts, squirts
Fire
Don't get no jizz upon that sofa, sofa
Don't get no jizz upon that sofa, sofa
Don't get no jizz upon that sofa, sofa
Don't get no jizz upon that sofa, sofa
Whereupon, in order to prove to JOE that he is no ordinary Appliance, SY
quotes a few lines of traditional American Love Poetry . . .
SY BORG:
What's a girl like you
Doing in a place like this?
Do you come here often?
Wait a minute. . .
I've got it . . .
You're an Italian . . .
What? You're Jewish?
Love your nails . . .
You must be a Libra
Your place or mine?
Your place or mine?
Your place or mine?
Your place or mine?
See the chrome
Feel the chrome
Touch the chrome
Heal the chrome
See the screaming
Hot black steaming
Iridescent naugahyde python screaming
Steam Roller!
SCENE ELEVEN
Sy Borg
CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:
This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . . Joe and his date are going back to
the apartment to have a little party . . .
JOE:
Sy Borg
Gimme dat, gimme dat
Sy Borg
Gimme dat, give me the chromium leg.
I beg
Sy Borg
Gimme dat, give me the chromium leg.
Little wires, pliers, tires
They turn me on
Maybe I'm crazy
Maybe I'm crazy
Maybe I'm crazy
mon . . .
Stroking several of SY's gleaming appendages, JOE continues . . .
Gee, Sy
This is a real groovy apartment
You've got here
SY BORG:
All government sponsored recreational services are clean and efficient
JOE:
This is exciting
I never plooked
A tiny chrome-plated machine
That looks like a magical pig
With marital aids stuck all over it
Such as yourself before
SY BORG:
You'll love it
It's a way of life
JOE:
Does that mean later
You'll plook me . . .
SY BORG:
If you wish, we may have a groovy orgy
JOE:
Just me and you?
SY BORG:
I share this apartment
With a modified
Gay Bob doll
He goes all the way . . .
Every try oral sex with a miniature rubberized homo-replica?
JOE:
No, ah, not yet
Ah, is this him?
SY BORG:
This is him
Your wish is his command
He likes you
He wants to kiss you always
Just tell him what you want
JOE:
Really?
Hi, little guy
Think I might get a tiny, but exciting
Blow . . . job . . .
Gimme dat, gimme dat
Bow job . . .
Gimme dat, give me de chromium cob
SY BORG:
Bend over
JOE:
Gay Bob
Blow job
Gimme dat, gimme dat
Blow job
Gimme dat, give me
De chromium cob
SY BORG:
You'll love it!
It looks just like a Telefunken U-47
JOE:
Little leather cap and trousers
They look so gay
Warren just
Bought some
Warren just
Bought some
Warren just
Bought some
Hey . . .
SY BORG:
Bob is tired
Plook me now
You savage rascal
Ehhh! That tickles
You are a fun person
I like you
I want to kiss you always
JOE:
Gee, this is great
How's about some bondage and humiliation?
SY BORG:
Anything you say, master
JOE:
Oh no, I don't believe it
You're way more fun than Mary . . .
SY BORG:
You're plooking too hard . . .
JOE:
And cleaner than Lucille . . .
SY BORG:
Plooking on me . . .
JOE:
What have I been missing
All these years?
SY BORG:
Too hard
JOE:
Sy . . .
SY BORG:
Too hard
JOE:
Sy . . .
SY BORG:
Plooking too hard on me-e-e-e-e . . .
JOE:
Speak to me
Oh no . . .
The golden shower must have shorted out
His master circuit
He's, he's on my God
I must have plooked him . . .
Hey
To death . . .
Hey
CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:
This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . . You have just destroyed one
model
XQJ-37 Nuclear-powere Pan-sexual Roto-plooker. And you're gonna
have to
pay for it! So give up, you haven't got a chance
JOE:
But I . . .
I, I, I, I . . .
I can't pay
I gave all my money
To some kinda groovy religious guy
Two songs ago . . .
CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:
Come on out son . . .
Between the two of us
We'll find a way to
Work it out
SCENE TWELVE
Dong Work for Yuda
CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:
Hello again . . . this is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . .
. Joe was sent
to a special prison where they keep all the other criminals from the music
business . . . you know . . . the ones who get caught
. . . it's a
horrible place, painted all green on the inside, where musicians and former
executives take turns snorting detergent and plooking each other . . .
(As the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER chuckles to himself for a moment, FATHER RILEY,
who became BUDDY JONES, steps into view in his new identity: FATHER RILEY
B. JONES, Prison Chaplain, who, in a rather heavy-handed piece of imagery,
is now entrusted with the job of singing this
song as he assists the
captured executives in their quest for new meat to plook, and, once having
found these victims for the princes of the industry, trades them
little
blobs of sanctified lubricant jelly for cigarettes and candy bars while he
holds them down so the execs won't have to work too hard when they stick it
in.)
. . . Anyway, while he's in there he meets this
guy who used to be a
promo man for a major record company, Bald-Headed John . . . King of the
Plookers . . .
FATHER RILEY B. JONES:
This is the story ' bout
Bald-Headed John
FORMER EXECS:
Dong work for Yuda
Dong, Dong
FATHER RILEY B. JONES:
He talks a lot 'n it's usually wrong
FORMER EXECS:
Dong work for Yuda
Dong, Dong
FATHER RILEY B. JONES:
He said Dong was Wong
'N Wong was Kong
'N Dong work for Yuda
'N John was wrong
FORMER EXECS:
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
Dong work for Yuda
Dong, Dong
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
He said Dong
Was Wong
And Wong was Kong
And Dong was Gong
'N John was wrong
FATHER RILEY B. JONES:
John's got a sausage
Yeh man
John's got a sausage
Yeh man
John's got a sausage that will make you fart
John's got a sausage that will break your heart
Make you fart
And break your heart
Don't bend over if you are smart
He took a little walk to the weenie stand
John's got a sausage
Yeh man
A great big weenie in both his hands
John's got a sausage
Yeh man
He sucked on the end 'til the mustard squirt
He said "Ya'll stand back 'cause you might get hurt"
FORMER EXECS:
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
John's got a sausage
Yeh man
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
He said Dong was Wong
Wong was Kong
Kong was Gong
'N John was wrong
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
BALD-HEADED JOHN:
Make way for the iron shaschige
FORMER EXECS:
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
BALD-HEADED JOHN:
I need a dozen towels so the boys can take a shower
FORMER EXECS:
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
BALD-HEADED JOHN:
Bartender, bring me a colada and milk
FORMER EXECS:
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
BALD-HEADED JOHN:
On second thought, make that a water . . .
HtO
FORMER EXECS:
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
BALD-HEADED JOHN:
Falcum . . .
Take me to the falcum!
FORMER EXECS:
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
BALD-HEADED JOHN:
I wave my bags
Did you wave your'n
FORMER EXECS:
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
BALD-HEADED JOHN:
Well how much did they wave?
FORMER EXECS:
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
BALD-HEADED JOHN:
I'm almost two kilometers tall
FORMER EXECS:
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
BALD-HEADED JOHN:
This girl must be praketing richcraft
FORMER EXECS:
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
BALD-HEADED JOHN:
Don't worry about the faggot
I'll take care of the faggot
FORMER EXECS:
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
Try it again,
Try it again
Try, try, try again . . .
etc., etc., etc.
BALD-HEADED JOHN:
Your Pomona is very extinct . . .
Yeah, I studied with the Dong of Tokyo
'N also with the oriental Kato . . .
My body contain uh water
I just love the way these Copenhagens talks!
Driver, McDoodle . . .
Sausage
Salima
Salami
That looks like the stuff that Freckles lets out
Once a mumfth . . .
SCENE THIRTEEN
Keep It Greasey
Eventually FATHER RILEY B. JONES gets around to JOE with his little case of
pre-blessed unguents . . .
CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:
This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . . Poor Joe. He's
getting tired of
bending over . . . but we tried to warn him . .
. didn't we? Okay,
Joe . . . you asked for it . . . here comes The Big
One . . .
JOE:
(Annointing himself as he sings)
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
MANX:
Roll it over 'n grease it down
I'll drive you through the heart of town
JOE (who is still wearing his housewife costume from when he first picked
up SY BORG in The Closet) adjusts his little apron to a more advantageous
position and sings . . .
JOE:
Hey, the good women, they sure has it tough
The good men, well there ain't enough
All the good girls are lookin' all the time
Good men is something that they can't find
'Cause if they find one miraculously
They try to be as lovin' as they can be
'Cause if they find one and let him go
Chances are they might not ever find one no mo'
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
MANX:
Roll it over 'n grease it down
I'll drive you through the heart of town
JOE:
A girl don't need
No fancy grease
To get herslef
Some rump release
Any kind
Of lube'll do
Maybe from another part of you
Lube from the North
Lube from the South
Take a little slobber
From the side of your mouth
Roll it over
Grease it down
Here come that crazy
Screamin' sound . . .
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Roll it over ' grease it down, down, down
Grease it down . . .
Oh no! Here comes that screamin' sound again . . .
And sure enough the walls of the prison did reverberate with all sorts of
screamin' sounds as lawyers and execs and promo personages all decide to
jump on JOE for a spectacular high speed gang-bang leading to . . .
SCENE FOURTEEN
Outside Now
JOE:
(Somewhat exhausted)
These exectutives have plooked the fuck out of me
And there's still a long time to go before I've
Paid my debt to society
And all I ever really wanted to do was
Play the guitar 'n bend the string like
Reent-toont-teent-toont-teent-toont-teenooneenoonee
I've got it
I'll be sullen and withdrawn
I'll dwindle off into the twilight realm
Of my own secret thoughts
I'll lay back here 'til dawn
In a semi-catatonic state
And dream of guitar notes
That would irritate
An executive kinda guy . . .
And sure enough JOE dreams up a few of those
guitar notes that every
executive despises . . . those low ones . . .
every exec knows it's
only the records with the high squeally ones that get to be hits (except
for Duane Eddy) .. .
Well, I guess that one did the trick
If they only coulda heard it
Half-a-dozen of 'em woulda strangled
While they was suckin' on each other's dick
But that was just a bunch of imaginary
Notes I played
Just a little extra somethin'
To keep me goin' from day to day
That's okay
I'll be gettin' outta here pretty soon
Then I won't have to live
In this ugly fuckin' room
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
etc., etc., etc.
And JOE just lays there, dreaming imaginary guitar notes for years on end,
until finally they let him out . . .
END OF ACT II
ACT III
SCENE FIFTEEN
He Used To Cut The Grass
JOE:
(To himself as he walks out of prison)
I'm out at last
Boy, the world sure looks different
Wow . . . there's hardly anything fun left to do
Since they made music illegal
But I'm hooked
I got the habit
I got to have it
I need to play
But there's no musicians anymore
They're all gone
Wait! I've got it!
I'll be sullen and withdrawn
I'll dwindle off into the twilight realm
Of my own secret thoughts
I'll walk through the parking lot
In a semi-catatonic state
And dream of guitar notes
To go with the loading zone announcements
JOE wanders though the world which by then has been totally epoxied over,
carefully organised, with everyone reporting daily to his or her appointed
place in a line somewhere in front of a window somewhere in
a building
somewhere in order to collect his or her welfare check, which when cashed,
made it possible for the young ones to continue
the payments for the
obsolete and irreperable appliances their parents had
purchased on an
installment plan years ago, providing as security the future
incomes of
their children. The rest of these checks were used by the young recipients
to buy fun things of their own on credit, most of
which broke down or
failed within moments of purchase and seemed to be stacking up everywhere.
CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:
The WHITE ZONE is for loading and unloading only
If you gotta load or unload, go to the WHITE ZONE
You'll love it
It's a way of life
As JOE stumbles over mounds of dead consumer goods formed into
abstract
statues dedicated to the Quality of American Craftsmanship, dreaming his
stupid little guitar notes, he hears somewhere in the back of his head, the
voice of MRS. BORG, taunting him:
MRS. BORG
Turn it down!
Turn it down!
I have children sleeping here!
Don't you boys know any nice songs?
I'm calling the police!
I did it!
They'll be here . . . shortly!
I'm not jokin around anymore!
You'll see now!
There they are . . . they're coming!
Just listen to that mess, would you!
Every day this goes on around here!
He used to cut my grass . . .
He was a very nice boy . . .
He used to cut my grass . . .
He was a very nice boy . . .
He used to cut my grass . . .
He was a very nice boy . . .
He used to cut my grass . . .
He was a very nice boy . . .
CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:
This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . . Yes . . .
he used to be a nice
boy . . . he used to cut the grass . . . But now
his mind is totally
destroyed by music. He's so crazy now he even believes that
people are
writing articles and reviews about his imaginary guitar
notes, and so,
continuing to dwindle in the twilight realm of his own secret thoughts, he
not only dreams imaginary guitar notes, but, to make matters
worse, he
dreams imaginary vocal parts to a song about the imaginary
journalistic
profession . . .
SCENE SIXTEEN
Packard Goose
JOE:
(Clutching the hood ornament of an ancient car)
Maybe you thought I was the Packard Goose
Or the Ronald McDonald of the nouveau-abstreuse
Well fuck all them people, I don't need no excuse
For being what I am
Do you hear me, then?
All them rock 'n roll writers is the worst kind of sleaze
Selling punk like some new kind of English disease
Is that the wave of the future?
Aw, spare me please!
Oh no, you gotta go
Who do you write for?
I wanna know
I believe you is the government's whore
And keeping peoples dumb is where you're coming from
Fuck all them writers with the pen in their hand
I will be more specific so they might understand
They can all kiss my ass
But because it's so grand
They best just stay away
Hey, hey, hey
Hey, Joe, who did you blow?
Moe pushed the button boy
And you went to the show
Better suck a little harder or the shekels won't flow
And I don't mean your thumb
So on your knees you bum
Just tell yourself it's Yum
And suck it 'til you're numb
Jounalism's kinda scary
And of it we should be wary
Wonder what became of Mary?
And no sooner has he wondered, a vision of MARY appears to him, delivering
a little lecture . . .
VOICE OF MARY'S VISION:
Hi! It's me . . . the girl from the bus . . .
Remember?
The last tour?
Well . . .
Information is not knowledge
Knowledge is not wisdom
Truth is not beauty
Beauty is not love
Love is not music
Music is THE BEST
Wisdom is the domain of the Wis (which is extinct)
Beauty is a French phonetic corruption
Of a short cloth neck ornament
Currently in resurgence . . .
And no sooner has she spoken (which is awkward and probably incorrect but
what the fuck), enormous flabby short cloth neck ornaments
obscure the
horizon in a multitude, beating their ugly wings and working their hidden
chrome snap attachments as they resurge in the direction of the WHITE ZONE
seeking snack material near the Utensil Shrines of Greater America . . .
JOE:
If you're in the audience and like what we do
Well, we want you to know that we like you all too
But as for the sucker who will write the review
If his mind is prehensile
He'll put down his pencil
And have himself a squat
On the Cosmic Utensil
Give it all you got
On the Cosmic Utensil
Sit 'n spin until you rot
On the Cosmic Utensil
Now that I got that over with
I'll just play my imaginary guitar again
[Reent-toont-teent-toont-teenooneenoonee]
Hey . . . sounds real good!
Hey . . . get down, me . . .
Boy, what an imagination!
Love myself better than I love myself . . .
I think . . .
What tone!
Sounds like an Elegant Gypsy!
What is that!
Musk?
It's hip!
SCENE SEVENTEEN
Watermelon In Easter Hay
CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:
This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . . Joe has just worked
himself into
an imaginary frenzy during the fade-out of his imaginary song . .
. He
begins to feel depressed now. He knows the end is near. He has
realized
at last that imaginary guitar notes and imaginary vocals exist only in the
imagination of The Imaginer . . . and . . .
ultimately, who gives a
fuck anyway? . . . Who gives a fuck
anyway? So he goes back to his
ugly little room and quietly dreams his last imaginary guitar solo . . .
(after the song ends)
This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . . As you can see, MUSIC can
get you
pretty fucked up . . . Take a tip from Joe, do like he
did, hock your
imaginary guitar and get a good job . . . Joe did, and he's a
happy guy
now, on the day shift at the Utility Muffin Research Kitchen, arrogantly
twisting the sterile canvas snoot of a fully-charged icing
annointment
utensil. And everytime a nice little muffin comes by on the belt, he poots
forth . . . And if this doesn't
convince you that MUSIC causes BIG
TROUBLE . . . then maybe I should turn off my plastic megaphone and sing
the last song on the album in my regular voice . . .
SCENE EIGHTEEN
A Little Green Rosetta
CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
You'll make a muffin betta
With a green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A tiny green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
You'll make a muffin betta
Betta
It's really getting betta
With a green rosetta
Setta, setta
That's right, with a green rositti, too
Green rositti
A little green rositti
It's really, really meaty
A little green rositti
Betta, betta
(Hey, really out there . . . really good)
It's really getting betta
It's betta, it's betta
With a green rosetta
Setta, setta
(Good God, give the drummer some)
Green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
(Setta, setta, setta, etc. . . .)
(Make a muffin, make a muffin, make a muffin,
Make a muffin betta, make a muffin betta, etc. . . .)
With a green rosetta
A little green rosetta
(Etc. . . .)
Good God! you're really jammin'! Now the Reggae
version, hey for the
People in the Third World . . . we haven't
forgotten anybody on this
song . . . for all of you French people . . .
who think that you're
outta sight . . . And for the people in Spain .
. . who think the
French people are where it's at . . . And for the people in Mongolia who
always wanted to go to Spain for a vacation . . . And for
those of you
in Taiwan who got chumped, this chorus is for you: (Rang Tang Ding Dong, I
am the Japanese Sandman . . . Take Eight . . .)
Green rosetta
Green rosetta
A little green rosetta
(Against the Reggae beat, though . . . No, it's still Reggae, but it's all
backwards)
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
You'll make a muffin betta
(Etc., etc., etc. . . .)
Now you see, some places in the Third World it might be difficult to dance
to this because the kerosene record player is not a very efficient device .
. . And a lot of times they run out of, they run out of
spunk right in
the middle of the chorus . . . Causing the song to sound like this
. .
.)
A little green rosetta
However we continue in spite of the fact that the fuel may be low on your
record player. We suggest that in places like
the Fourth World where
things are really tough that you keep the record player going by rubbing
two sticks together. And if all else fails, throw the record away . .
.
build your own green rosetta . . . try this recipe: We'll
start with a
lump of grass . . . the grass bone connected to the ankle
bone . . .
the knee bone connected to the wishbone . . . and then
everybody moves
to New York and goes to a party with Warren. Hey! And we've flown
in at
great expense (triple scale, no less, ladies and gentlemen), Steve Gadd's
clone to play the out-chorus on this song . . . he's really outasite, in
spite of the fact that the click track is totally irrelevant to what he's
doing now. I'm listening to the click, yes, I'm suffering with the click
track right now . . . this guy is totally out of sync with it, but
what
the fuck. Ed Mann will call him up later,
show him the sign. Okay,
Vinnie, where is five?
They're pretty good musicians
They're pretty good musicians
They're pretty good musicians
They're pretty good musicians
But it don't make no difference
If they're good musicians
Because anybody who would buy this record
Doesn't give a fuck if there's good musicians
On it
Because this is a stupid song
AND THAT'S THE WAY I LIKE IT
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
You make a muffin betta
With a little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
Rosetta, rosetta, rosetta
(etc., etc., etc. . . .)
AL MALKIN:
Zetta . . .
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