To swing or no to swing that is the hanger.
Is it hipper for the wig to dig the flips
and the drags of the wheel of fortune.
Or to come on like Kinsey against this mass mess
And by his stance cover the action?
Shall I knock on the pearly’s
Or dig the sweet sack of my pad,
Or sound the tall cat with the scythe?
Hey, there’s the drag.
And for all those broughtdown, squared up,
Natural drags that the skin is hung with,
This shot must be the end.
Ahh, my sacred charge.
To cut out, to goof, to endless goof.
Who knows, rock up a dream,
That’s frightsville, that’s terror city.
For a stud to stomp on Mars
What kind of cats will he have to face to?
King freaks in 3-D? Offbeat mothers?
Yea, there’s the hard lick that makes this endless drag flip city.
For which cat would tote all those barges and juggle all those bails,
grease the bad cat’s tilt, the proud stud’s slow burn,
The cold shoulder of the love hook and the heat’s hard story?
The sad brass at city hall, and the stiff brush
That the solid temple cats suffer from the flips
When the stud, if he likes, can be home free.
Ah, yes, ah yes, ah, yes, he’s standing,
He’s standing in the station which isn’t too cool.
He’s afraid to pick up the tickets for the trip.
He’s a real nervous kitty. Yea, he’s hip to Mr. Peter Porter calling,
“All aboard! All aboard for the moon satellite!
All aboard for the new world!”
But, he’s got the first time to hear the cat
Announce the arrival of the same train.
Hangs his wig. Makes a swamp cat cuddle his firefly.
He digs it’s better than no moon at all.
And, oh, yes, oh, yes, there’s that number one inside kitty,
Mr. Inside Me. Talk to him too much and he’ll slam your goldbrakes on.
Why every cat likes to show on the hero line.
Comes time to take the winner’s seat,
Cat’s like to have something to sit on beside his tailbone.
And so our cat wigs and wigs, a pool full of fools saying,
“He’s going to do it, he’s going to do it. I’ll do it.
How’m I going to get it? Get there. Send the money.
Make the phone call. Get the money. Get the money.
First thing in the morning.”
Maybe “someday soon” could be tomorrow
But no groove turns. Cat’s spinning his wheels,
Pushing his turbines, string the lights of fancy,
Open this door, knock down the door, push up the score!
But, it’s like Vegas where the wheels groove . . . no action.
Yea, I must cool now. Here comes the number one chick
seven-ply gasser, Ophelia, Lora in neon.
From Buckley's Best, World Pacific Records
Transcribed by EARL RIVERS