THe Missionary

The Missionary

I got nothing to eat, and I got nowhere to sleep, and I've nothing to drink — but I don't care 'bout nothing: On a mission from God, nothing for me in this life. I'm a walking time bomb — so eat shit, fucking die. And I got nothing to do, and I got nothing to lose, and I got nowhere to go; you think you do — but you don't. On a mission from God, nothing for me in this life. I'm a walking time bomb — so eat shit, fucking die. And I got nothing in hand, and I got no kind of plan, and when I sleep I don't dream — 'cause nothing is as it seems. On a mission from God, nothing for me in this life. I'm a walking time bomb — so eat shit, fucking die.

Nothing

Hey brother, can you spare a dime? I'm too hungry to swallow my pride; plus pride can't get you that drunk — but it sure can fuck you up. It's cold and lonely out here, with my empty cans of lite beer (in a plastic bag, with my Shakespeare) — they're worth ten cents (in Michigan). My slacks are caked with feces from hiding in soggy allies, dreaming of girls and toddies (that we used to drink). And when I roll my sleeve up I've found my one and true love. It hurts like hell to come down — that's why I just go round and round. It's cold and lonely out here, with my empty cans of lite beer (in a plastic bag, with my Shakespeare) — they're worth ten cents (in Michigan). My slacks are caked with feces from hiding in soggy allies, dreaming of girls and toddies (that we used to drink). This bottle that I'm holding is gone now, and I'm rolling down a steep, wet embankment; I wonder where my life went? It's cold and lonely out here, with my empty cans of lite beer (in a plastic bag, with my Shakespeare) — they're worth ten cents (in Michigan). My slacks are caked with feces from hiding in soggy allies, dreaming of girls and toddies (that we used to drink). We'd drink them just like the man in the big house, listening to Wagner, Brahms, and Strauss (his wife, she never puts out). They've done nothing — nothing!

Funny Farm

I grew up in a photograph: Small towns, dirt roads, old men in hats. I went away to university, but I couldn't ignore what was happening. I tried to tell the people — but the cops threw me in jail. They said what I did was evil; I can't tell no one these tales: Of Freedom, of Justice! They told me that they'd let me go, once I'd unlearned all the things I know. But I can't be silent; I won't be shy — someone's got to stand up to their lies. I tried to tell the people — but the cops threw me in jail. They said what I did was evil; I can't tell no one these tales: Of Expression, of Choices! Will my kids grow up in a world that's free, or a cage of forced insanity? These cement blocks, they fence me in; I may never see the sun or sky again. I tried to tell the people — but the cops threw me in jail. They said what I did was evil; I can't tell no one these tales: Of Liberty, of Tolerance! I tried to tell the people — but the cops threw me in jail. They said what I did was evil; I can't tell no one these tales: Free Speech! Free Thoughts! Free Press! A Free Society is based on Truth!

Sickness

The world drinks Coke, but don't swallow — you'll lose your soul. We tried to unionize, fight for a better life; but they would rather see us die than pay us one more goddamn dime. And I say, "Hell, no! You don't own me! No! — Despite your money, your riches, your power — your sickness! Hell, no! This ain't over! No! — 'Cause I'm right here, I'm waiting, I'm fighting — I'm staying!" We leave at dawn, march on and on; soon we'll all be gone. Unocal came in one day, said our village was in the way of a pipeline they were going to make — with forced labor, beatings, and rape. And I say, "Hell, no! You don't own me! No! — Despite your money, your riches, your power — your sickness! Hell, no! This ain't over! No! — 'Cause I'm right here, I'm waiting, I'm fighting — I'm staying!" We'll take a stand — you ravaged our land to fill your oil cans. We danced the Ogele to show we weren't afraid, but they shot us anyway — Chevron had to get paid. And I say, "Hell, no! You don't own me! No! — Despite your money, your riches, your power — your sickness! Hell, no! This ain't over! No! — 'Cause I'm right here, I'm waiting, I'm fighting — I'm staying!"

Ziggy the Zygote

Saved, by the grace of God, from a life of Sin; a wicked, wanton scofflaw, now I bring others to Him (with our signs and with our chants) outside the abortion clinic. Salvation can't be left to chance — for Love's Pure Light I did it. (I shot them dead!) Down on my knees, I pray for the ones they killed; for the harlots, tramps, and floozies, using their bodies for cheap thrills (instead of as a factory). So I spit on the parade of girls, heads hung in shame; you'll find no Love in this world — I pull it out and take aim. (I shot them dead!) Blood seeps and pools on the dirty sidewalk — Christ in His Kingdom rules! — this is the message He taught: Vengeance, swift and true. A miracle with every shot (justice for the sinning), everlasting Love from my Glock; killing to save the children. (I shot them dead!) The Grace of Christ, and the Love of God, and the Holy Ghost be with you all. Amen.

Lemonade

She flips the tube to the tennis match; she's got a bowl of granola snacks. She plops down and smooths out her slacks — she loves it when Martina wiggles that ass. Her mom says she is such a ditz — she forgot to shave her armpits. Her dad says she is such a wit — she's not leaving in that outfit. She's blonde, she's gay, she's blonde, she's gay — but she's happy in a heterosexual way. She's blonde, she's gay, she's blonde, she's gay — she thinks it's queer to be perfectly straight. And later as she watches Xena and munches on a veggie pizza: Dreams of crusading like a winged Athena for the environment of Argentina. She wishes she wore more hairspray, now it's in a cheeky disarray from the backseat of Bill's Chevrolet; the poor guy can't find the right place. She's blonde, she's gay, she's blonde, she's gay — but she's happy in a heterosexual way. She's blonde, she's gay, she's blonde, she's gay — she thinks it's queer to be perfectly straight. She listens to Etheridge folk rock; she sips green tea in a coffee shop. She smiles back at the lady cop; she slips back off her Birkenstocks. But she'll keep on her shopping spree 'till the card reader says no more money. Banging on the door of her Grand Marquis, she wonders where she left her keys? She's blonde, she's gay, she's blonde, she's gay — but she's happy in a heterosexual way. She's blonde, she's gay, she's blonde, she's gay — she thinks it's queer to be perfectly straight. She's blonde, she's gay, she's blonde, she's gay — she likes to eat at the fish taco buffet. She's blonde, she's gay, she's blonde, she's gay — she likes to drink the pink lemonade.

World War Halliburton

There's blood on my hands; there's blood on my hands, in a foreign land, and I can't understand; no I can't — oh, the bombs that we dropped, and the lives that it cost, and the hate that you make — it just won't go away; and the lies that you told about the things that we know; and the rich, they profit, but the poor, they see fire in the sky; there's fire in the sky, and I don't know why — what gave you the right? — what gave you the bombs that we dropped, and the lives that it cost, and the hate that you make — it just won't go away; and the lies that you told about the things that we know; and the rich, they profit, but the poor, they fear death from below; there's death from below, in the streets and the roads, and you can never go home — in the streets with the bombs that we dropped, and the lives that it cost, and the hate that you make — it just won't go away; and the lies that you told about the things that we know; and the rich, they profit, but the poor, they catch hell here on Earth; it's Hell here on Earth — get what you deserve, face down in the dirt — face down with the bombs that we dropped, and the lives that it cost, and the hate that you make — it just won't go away; and the lies that you told about the things that we know; and the rich, they profit, but the poor, they fight for oil in the sand; there's oil in the sand.