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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 . . .
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!
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