Go, sound my chick to hip me when my juice is ready.
I'll be straight when she knocks the gong.
And you, make your sack and cool.
Is this the sticker which I dig deep in front,
The handle touting my flipped fingers?
Groove, let me dig your frame.
I'm hip you come on like a voodoo,
And yet, you rock me the most.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to the pinch
As to the scene, or art thou but a sharp freak of the wig
Flying from an off-beat wig tilt?
I dig thee yet in form as this which now I am double-bugged by.
Thou hast false hipped me into this way of blowing
and hipped me.
Oh, that the sticker was the only lick.
My peepers are made the embows of my other charges,
Or else, capping all others, I dig,
This is Cinerama!
And on thy blade and swinger
Flipped founts of the jumpin' red
Which was not the issue before.
Just another blowing phantom.
It is this bloody flip
Which hips it thus to my glimmers.
Now, over my sweet sack world
My natural kicks won't jump
And bad dreams stomp and tilt my nod pads uncool go.
Boon voodoo buddy stallions
Tops Hecate's most fantastic jazz,
And with it, the twisted monster cat,
Sounded by his look-out, the gnasher,
Who's gut thunder his swatch mates with groovy tempo
And swings with Tarquin's tall non-stop strides
Straight to his mad kicks.
Moves like a crazy scare-crow in a stoneyard.
Now, thou solid and firm-set sod,
Dig not my strides, which way they blow,
For fear that I shall knock a stone
And make known my riff.
And cool my wigs from the free drags which blow so righteous.
While I flip, he grooves.
Sounds to the heat of framed scenes too cold breath hips.
I must cut and it is covered.
The chimes call me.
But dig it not too rosy, Duncan,
For it is the swinger that will take you
To The Garden or to Heat City.
from "Hipsters, Flipsters and Finger Poppin' Daddies"
transcribed by Michael Monteleone