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Lyrics:
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play karaoke
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I'll 'Ave Ya - TISM
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Death Death Death (Live at the Old Greek Theatre) - TISM
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Death Death Death - TISM
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I Shit Me - TISM
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I Drive A Truck - TISM
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I Don't Want TISM, I Want A Girlfriend - TISM
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A Face Full Of Divertamenti - TISM
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X-Treme Sports Can Kiss My Arse - TISM
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Would The Last Person To Leave Please Turn Out The Enlightenment? - TISM
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Whinge Rock - TISM
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The Ballad Of The Semitic Nazi - TISM
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Root - TISM
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Garbage - TISM
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Kill Yourself Now And Avoid The Rush - TISM
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Kill Americans - TISM
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Kevin Borich Expressionism Part 4 - TISM
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Kevin Borich Expressionism Part 2 - TISM
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Kevin Borich Expressionism Part 1 - TISM
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Kate - Fischer Of Men - TISM
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Jung Talent Time - TISM
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Julius Seizure (Act III Scene II Verses 73-118) - TISM
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Johnny To B. Or Not To B. Goode - TISM
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Neighbours - Everybody Loves Good Neighbours - TISM
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My Generation - TISM
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Volare - TISM
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Thou Shalt Not Britney Spear - TISM
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There’s More Men In Children Than Wisdom Knows - TISM
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The TISM Nightsoil Cart And Horse Blues - TISM
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My Brilliant Huntington's Chorea - TISM
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The Only Thing Stopping Me From Being Happy Is That I’m Not More Depressed - TISM
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The Mystery Of The Artist Explained - TISM
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The Mordialloc Rd. Duplicator - TISM
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The Last Australian Guitar Hero - TISM
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The Fosters Car Park Boogie - TISM
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Ten Points For A Razor Scooter - TISM
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Take Your Love - TISM
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Strictly Loungeroom - TISM
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Schoolies Week - TISM
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Saturday Night Palsy - TISM
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Pus Of The Dead - TISM
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Pus - TISM
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Professor Derrida Deconstructs - TISM
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Opposite Day - TISM
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Mourningtown Ride - TISM
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Morrison Hostel - TISM
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Mistah Eliot - He Wanker - TISM
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I’m Gonna Sit Right Down And Whittle Away My Furniture - TISM
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I'm Interested In Apathy - TISM
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Martin Scorsese Is Really Quite A Jovial Fellow - TISM
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Loser, Losing, Lost - TISM
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Lose Your Delusion II - TISM
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Lose Your Delusion I - TISM
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Lillee Caught Dilley Bowled Milli Vanilli - TISM
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Life Kills - TISM
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Let’s Club It To Death - TISM
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Let's Form A Company - TISM
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Leo’s Toltoy - TISM
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Ladies And Gentlemen - The Judeo-Christian Ethic - TISM
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Jack Elliot's Turf Whinge - TISM
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If You're Not Famous At Fourteen, You're Finished - TISM
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If You're Creative, Get Stuffed - TISM
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I’m Into Led Zep - TISM
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Give Up For Australia - TISM
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Gimme Gimme Nervous Breakdown - TISM
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Get Thee To A Nunnery - TISM
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Get Thee In My Behind, Satan - TISM
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Gas! Gas! - An Ecstasy Of Fumbling - TISM
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Fourteen Years In Rowville - TISM
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Five Yards - TISM
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Father And Son - TISM
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Ezra Pound, Axe-King - TISM
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Existentialtism - TISM
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Defecate On My Face (Country Version) - TISM
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Defecate On My Face - TISM
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Eckermann Is Very Silly - TISM
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Boot Party - TISM
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Dumb 'N' Base - TISM
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Doug Parkinson Sings Christie Allen - TISM
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Defecate On My Face (MGF Remix) - TISM
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Come Back DJ, Your Record Is Scratched - TISM
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Choose Bad Smack - TISM
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Channel Turd - TISM
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Bishop = Handjob - TISM
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BFW - TISM
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Bash This Up Your Ginger - TISM
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Babies Bite Back - TISM
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Aussiemandias - TISM
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Anarchy Means Crossing When It Says 'Don't Walk' - TISM
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All Ordinaries Index - TISM
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All Homeboys Are Dickheads - TISM
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Abscess Makes The Heart Grow Fonder - TISM
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(I Think I’ve Got) Mick Jagger Worked Out - TISM
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The Men's Room - TISM
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While My Catarrh Gently Weeps - TISM
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We Are The Champignons - TISM
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The TISM Boat Hire Offer - TISM
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The Ballad Of John Bonham's Coke Roadie - TISM
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The Back Upon Which Jezza Jumped - TISM
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Recorded By JJJ, 24/1/93, Melbourne Showgrounds - TISM
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Rebel Without A Paunch - TISM
You look like Yassa Arafat,
You look like Indira Ghandi;
You look like Andre Gromeko -
You look like Roberts; Sandy.
Chorus:
I'll 'ave ya.
You look like Ronald Regan,
You look like Adolf Hitler;
You look like George Shultz -
You look like Magilla Gorrilla.
You look like Abel Tasman,
You look like Barney Rubble;
You look like Mussolini -
If ya pickin' me, there'll be trouble
Bruises bruises bruises
Cuts cuts cuts
Giblets Giblets Giblets
Guts guts guts
Death - Death
Hacksaw hacksaw hacksaw
Scrape scrape scrape
Murder murder murder
Rape rape rape
Torture torture torture
Rack rack rack
Slaughter slaughter slaughter
Attack attack attack
Bruises bruises bruises
Cuts cuts cuts
Giblets Giblets Giblets
Guts guts guts
Death - Death
Hacksaw hacksaw hacksaw
Scrape scrape scrape
Murder murder murder
Rape rape rape
Torture torture torture
Rack rack rack
Slaughter slaughter slaughter
Attack attack attack
Work, play; Night, day -
They shit me.
Good, bad; Happy, sad -
They shit me.
He, she; They, we -
They shit me.
Rich, poor; Less, more -
They shit me.
Out, in; Fat, thin -
They shit me.
Black, white; Left, white -
They shit me.
Epistemology shits me;
Ontology shits me;
Phraseology shits me;
Scatology shits me;
Life shits me;
This song shits me;
Even shit shits me;
But they don't shit me one tiny, eentzy, weentzy, miniscule, macroscopic, nanoseismic, pan-insignificant,
zoophytic, neo-nonexistent little bit compared to the way
I shit me.
Truck you, Australia Felix;
Truck you, the sheep's back;
Truck you, Tasmania;
Truck you, Big Mac.
Chorus
I drive a truck.
Truck you, Scotch and soda;
Truck you, the Underground;
Truck you, the enigmatic coda;
Truck you, lost and found.
Truck you, cunt burger cheese;
Truck you, pubic hair;
Truck you, if you please;
Truck you, five bucks the pair.
Don't wanna do soundchecks;
Don't wanna do gigs;
Don't wanna do any rehearsal;
I just wanna get a girl -
Maybe have kids -
A total role reversal.
Put away my songbook;
Put away my guitar;
Put away my balaclava;
Swap them for a briefcase -
And a family car -
I just wanna be a father.
Life is like cum, you gag but you swallow
When it goes down your windpipe and comes out tomorrow.
Oh! Never forget that you'll never remember
My name once your lip's off my member.
Remember the days when you were a lad,
Trying to fuck the arse of your mum and blow the fuck outta dad?
Or, if you're a lass, that part of you achin'
For the guy who kisses mum and brings home the bacon.
Oh, what happens now we're as naked as babies,
All over each other like V.D. or rabies?
In each others' jockettes long may we wallow.
Life is like cum, you gag but you swallow.
Base jumping's for pussies
Kick boxing's for thugs
Jet skiers are morons,
Weight lifters need drugs
Abseiling is pointless
Why climb up a wall?
Only right wankers
Play beach volleyball.
The X-Treme Sport you haven't tried yet
is kissing my arse.
Kiss my arse.
Met a snowboarder
Who wasn't a turd?
Nah, neither have I
The idea's absurd
You get on a plank
Slide down some slush
Fall on your arse
Say "Man, what a rush!"
I turned on the telly
I just went, like, "Whoa!"
And used the remote
To flick through the shows!
I think I'll watch footy
I know it's not x-treme
But why take it to the max
When you can take it to the mean?
Murder! Murder! Murder! Murder!
There's a pomegranate up your blurter!
Eating fruit is mean and vicious!
Keep your hands off Golden Delicious!
World Bank is wrong! So is fetta!
My voodoo man will make it better
My voodoo man speaks only Hindi
Put super-glue on my Bindi
Would the last person to leave please turn out the enlightenment?
I'm lacto-enzyme-oxy intolerant!
I use breathatarian-based emollient
Meditation makes me ebullient!
I've never earned a day's emolument.
Everywhere, astral-signed hippiness
Primitive as Australopithecus,
Panders to some deah-head's wishes
Next we'll be back to burning witches.
If your dishes stink in you putrid sink;
If your vacuum cleaner's bust;
If your refrigerator's on the blink,
C'mon, sing along with us:
Chorus:
Whinge rock
This song's for the alienated
In their ghetto dwelling fringe.
Capitalism's a harsh cruel world -
C'mon pine heads, have a whinge:
Every song on the radio,
Someone's moaning about heart burn,
Or Sting's lost his copy of Jung -
C'mon listener, now it's your turn.
They called my dad the only Rabbi in jackboots;
They called my mum the wife of my dad;
They circumcised me at the Nuremburg rally:
That's how I became a Semitic Nazi for life.
My mum always told me not to annex Poland;
My dad always told me not to invade Russia;
That's what you get for being a rebel -
Stuck in a bunker, eating unleaven bread.
I'm as popular as a Jew in Beirut;
I'm responsible for millions of deaths;
I've decimated more than half of Europe;
Kinda makes you want to boogie.
Tend tend tend,
Tend to your trodden lives,
While I I I
Poke you between the eyes;
I can smell smell smell,
Smell you from here
'Cause your pants pants pants
Are stained with fear.
I met a member of Generation X
Said, "What's in with you kids these days?
I'm so old I'll probably never've heard of it" -
And then he said, "Purple Haze."
Now I know that we should separate our garbage -
The environment'll give us thanks;
But it's going too far when teenagers re-cycle
Their parents' adolescent angst.
chorus: Do you wanna save the world? Don't recycle garbage.
Monday night is 50's night;
Tuesday night is 60's night;
Wednesday night is 70's night;
Friday night is Thursday night.
Paul Mc. Cartney once said that the Sex Pistols
Were another band doin' Chuck Berry;
At the time I thought, "You boring old wanker",
But now I think it's downright scary.
What's so good about the 60's?
That we gotta keep rewindin' the clock?
You know the best thing about the 60's?
They'd never heard of "Classic Rock."
Your life is like a candle
Lighting your way
A beacon in the darkness
So snuff it right away
The world is like a oyster
A fortune inside
The pearl is waiting for you
So clam up and die.
Kill all the red-blooded, flag waving, young yankee boys,
String their torsos up, and use their dicks as toys,
Nuke every U.S. city, blow them to the sky-
Every single fucking Yank deserves to fucking die.
You gotta work real hard,
To be a faithful man,
You gotta lie
For one extra person.
You've gotta make your bed,
And sleep in it,
You sort of wish
That you were solo.
You've gotta work real hard,
To be a married man,
You've gotta say
"Love is no illusion."
You've gotta tell yourself,
"No grass is greener."
You've got a wife, got a life
They're in collusion
You've gotta work real hard,
To be a solo man,
You've gotta hang
Shit on married men.
You've gotta go to bars,
And smoke in bands,
You've gotta think
That you're happy.
I know he owns a paper Kate, but I buy one every day;
It's not that he's rich and successful that you love him, so you say,
Which makes me feel so much better, Kate, cos I'm not any of those;
And, just like him, that's got nothing to do with my abilities: God, no -
As it is, I'm still renting, and the place can get a little drab,
But at least you know in two decades' time I won't look like his dad.
There's a tall poppy syndrome, Kate, that is ready to attack:
Come with me and I'll guarantee you won't get any of that flack;
There's sneering two bit disaffected maladjusted types
Ready with their oh so moral high ground jeering hype
Condemning you just because you are who you are -
I'd drive round now and rescue you, 'cept the diff's gone on my car.
It's not too late: give him the a and come with me to Airport West -
We've got a brand new shopping mall with a eight cinema multiplex;
There's a half tube skateboard ramp and the waterslide's the best -
Down Airport East they say we're snobs, but I know you'll be impressed.
In Airport East they ain't got much, so all they do is slag,
Just like the people whose weddings don't make the women's mags
I'm interested in wog ball and I really like Acca Dacca;
And I'm better than him 'cos I'm a store man as well being a Packer.
Cos, I'm a bit short of cash right now, but before rumors get about,
Any one says I like you for your dough, I'll snap the bastard out.
If I marry you I'll be famous, Kate, but they won't take my privacyÂ...
Enough about me: what about you - what do you think of me?
I'll just assume it's a done deal, then, and get on with the rest,
Like finalizing photo rights and which tabloid offer's the best -
Give it a break, Kate, you can't complain if we make a buck:
Our marriage could set up us for life, with a little bit of luck.
I could be rich and famous Kate, just you mark my words:
Why marry some unknown jerk from the outer suburbs?
Bert Newton; Warwick Capper; Samantha Fox; Richard Wilkins; Don Lane; Rocky Burnette; Ernie Sigley; Olivia Newton John; New Kids On The Block; Billy Ray Cyrus; Uri Geller; A Flock Of Seagulls; Betty Boo; Vanilla Ice; Jacko; Bros; Cliff Young; Victoria Nicholls; The Daddo's; Tony Barber; Shannon Doherty; TISM; Fairlie Arrow; Mike Whitney; Chelsea Brown; Noeline Daniher; Ugly Dave Gray; Jeannie Little; Peter
Reith; Pete Smith; Brian Mannix; Scotty Palmer; Julia
Roberts; Dennis Walter; Jade Hurley; Elle Mc. Pherson;
Brian Bury; Denise Drysdale; Jo Baily; Bongo Starkie;
Russel Cooper; Edie Sedgwick; Bianca Jagger; Racey; Tony Modra; Gumpie; Paul Janoskis; The Pony; Brandon Lee; Travis Bickle; Kerry-Ann Keneally; Terry Willessee; Harold Holt; Nadia Komenesh; The Archies; Gary Numan; Tubular Bells; Alan Parsons Project; Peter Frampton; Lynyrd Skynyrd; Ken Done; Albie Mangles; Anyone called Trevor; Snow; General Ambrose Burnside; Yes; Smokey; Sailor; Graham Hick; Graham Taylor; Dr. Hook; Jazzy Jeff; Mandy Smith; Lee Majors; Ivana Trump; Cicciolina; River Phoenix; Plastic Bertrande; Farah Fawcett Majors; Rob Lowe; Brenda & Brandon; Brett Easton; All of Prince's girlfriends; Bubbles; Julio Inglesias; Kenny G. ; Gordon Elliot; Paloma Picasso; Angie Bowie; Gerald Ford; Jeremy Jordan; Laurie Anderson; Diana Spenser; Prince Charles; Prince Andrew; Every Royal anywhere; Zsa Zsa Gabor; The Hood; The Cult; Sammy Davis Jnr.; Peter Lawford; James Dean; Dan Qualle; Jim Morrison; Jethro Tull; Janis Ian; Pope John Paul I; Bill Wyman; Britt Eckland; Karen Finlay; John Cage; Any performance artist; Linda Mc. Cartney; Kim Bassinger; Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music; Chipmunk punk; Andy Gibb; David Koresh; Everyone on Neighbours; Jennifer Flowers; Camilla Parker-Bowles; John Bonham; Starsky & Hutch; Mickey Rourke; Le Toya Jackson; Boyz II Men; Classix Nouveau; The Knack; Klaatu; Kriss Kross; East 17; Pearl Jam; Jimmy Swaggart; Pee Wee Herman; Tommy Hanlen Jnr. ; Peter Andre; Greg Evans; The Sharp
Second Plebian: Peace! Let us hear what Anthony can say.
Anthony: You gentle Romans-
All: Peace, ho! Let us hear him.
Anthony: I come to praise, not to bury, the shoddy and the rooted -
To lament for the passing of those men, Safari suited,
Who'd flatten you with mindless glee when they got really newted.
Behind the bottleshop you'd see the roughest justice done:
Yeah, it was assault and battery - but with a sense of fun,
And a drink together after, when the ambulance had come.
Who would have thought you'd ever miss the barmaid's brutal snarl
And guys looking at you strange while she says, "What's yours, darl?"
"Wanna go?" is all you recall, before the blow and grand mal.
"You gotta fucking mouth on ya," those moustached yobs would say
Back when being literate was something to hide away
And being mediocre meant you played in the V.F.A.
But now everyone is talking, and it's oh so tres witty:
All those fucking D.J's and their flashy repartee -
It's always breakfast down in Hell, and radio compulsory.
From McGuiness to McGuire to Douglas fucking Aiton
There's a whole new type of person that's takin' over this damn nation:
And I'm not talkin' some racist crap about Asian immigration -
If you're a yobbo now, you're rooted; no one says, "I'll 'ave ya, pal" -
Listen to Adrian Martin, Jon Casimir, et al:
Excellence is demanded, or the critics give you hell.
Everyone's got a fucking voice - there's personae right and left:
They must learn this stuff in school: I mean, what fucking next?
Even the E.G cadets crap on, then move to the London desk.
Who needs another columnist to point out that the thing
'Bout living in the suburbs is that it ain't like Berlin? -
Just in case all of you in Melton were ever wondering.
I tell you what can get fucked, and that's fucking them for starters:
If there's one thing we just don't need, it's another mouthy smartarse
Slagging off the guys who wear footy shorts and zappatas.
You know who we've swapped them for? People who say "rad"
And blokes who go round reading books on being a modern dad -
Why, everything's so cool these days, I can't even understand Telstra ads.
Excellence surrounds us like a fucking voodoo curse:
There's Helen Garner's sister's book; there's all of modern verse;
There's world's best practice, and business men talking terse
On mobile phones on a mobile net that reaches round the earth;
Everything is excellent: nowadays, there's nothing worse
Than saying "I don't give a shit": you'd be in a fucking hearse
Driven by some consultant git who's analyzed your system
And wants to fully integrate you into modern wisdom:
He's gonna take you by the balls and flush you down the cistern.
You know what killed the Anzacs? It weren't the fucking Turks,
It was the Australians coming after them talking up the perks
Of fucking multi-skilling and how the Internet fucking works.
So give me back the good old days, though I know they really stank,
When everyone could seem to tell when you were talking wank,
And we didn't all have to go around pretending to be Yanks.
Give us back those great ideas that made this nation free,
Like the end of season footy trip, and inefficiency,
And if they aren't part of freedom - well, who gives a fuck? Not me.
Why find voice now at this stage, when silence was just fine?
Why learn to talk in coffee shops? It's a fucking wank, for mine.
Coathanger one of these effete guys, next thing you know he's cryin'.
The one thing good 'bout dumbing down is you're not so fucking smart;
I thought Australia was the country that had a silent heart -
It's time we just shutfuckingup. I know what. I'll start.
Johnny's Mum took drugs and alcohol;
Johnny's mates knew she was a mole;
She told Johnny to be a rock and roll star -
He said, "No way, I'm staying right where I are."
Chorus:
Stay home Johnny, stay home...(etc.)
Johnny got home, he went to bed;
Johnny went on to do Melbourne Med.;
Johnny got rich being a doctor,
And then he died after a happy but boring existence.
No one knew Johnny, and he didn't care;
When on the bottom storey, he climbed the stair;
Johnny didn't get very far:
Most of all, he hated guitar.
I
Cancer? Cancer?! I dream of cancer -
Cancer can eat my bones:
O, lucky I would consider myself
To be racked by cancerous moans.
A fate more evil, a life more lost
The Devil for me foresaw:
Imagine the day I woke to find
The Milats had moved next door!
II
Was I a man of the bourgeoisie?
Ha! Of course I was more than that!
I was a latte drinking, clever thinking
Documentary making pratt.
I ran my own film company,
I was an artist, I was sure.
Then I heard my neighbour say:
"I'm Alex Milat. I'm in next door."
III
My films explored the evil side
Of Mankind's unknowable self;
My kids all went to private schools,
My wife, she bloomed with health;
The critics applauded my visual style
And my dissection to the core
Of the Freudian, Jungian evil id.
Then the Milats moved next door.
IV
Ivan, of course, was doing time
But his brothers are all free men.
"There's me, there's Walter," said Alex Milat,
"And Richard - in all, there's ten.
Me and the wife moved in last week,
And when Richard's coming we're unsure.
You like films? Well, I'll bring over someÂ... shots.
Wink. Wink. We only live next door."
V
A shadow, a pall, hung over my days
The first weeks after I found out.
The bruchutto was off, the antipasto stale
At the cafes where we'd all hang out.
"It's good for your art," said my cameraman,
"They're just the sort your films explore."
"Fuck my films," I told Toby, "you pretentious git -
My fucking films don't knock on my door."
VI
My wife was a painter, sculptor too -
Her studio was set up at home.
"I can't stay here," she'd scream at me,
"It's impossible to work alone."
Her exhibition was coming up soon -
A review in the Age for sure.
"Just stay calm," I'd scream - so loudly, too,
I bet you they could've heard next door.
VII
A couple of months after they came
I got a call from my children's school:
"Your daughter's been caught smoking pot,
And your son's started playing the fool.
The counsellor's asked them both to say
If their home is quite safe and secure."
By his tone I knew straight away
He lay the blame right at my door.
VIII
My next film was a critical flop
For the first time in my career.
"He seems to have lost his ability
To show evil up close and near."
I read that review, and gave a laugh -
Critics always think they know more.
Fucking critics should try living up close
To the people who live next door.
IX
Toby left me the very next month
To shoot a Gillian Armstrong flick.
"You know," he told me when he left,
"I always thought you a soft cock prick."
Funding dried up; grants turned down;
My wife couldn't take any more:
"I'm leaving," she said, "I'm getting out.
I can't live here with them next door."
X
But the way she said it, how she left,
I knew the Milats were her excuse:
She married a successful film artist,
Not a failure. The final proof
Came when I heard three months later
She'd moved in with some director bore
Whose film was at Cannes. She was gone -
But I couldn't blame the people next door.
XI
My children went to some alternative school
Where all the hippy children go;
After that, we sort of lost contact -
I last heard from them two years ago.
I got a job in advertising
Shooting commercials - on video, what's more.
No super 8, only mainstream crap
Designed for the people who live next door.
XII
And yesterday came my greatest shock -
Oh, Truth comes bound in Pain:
I went to next door's intercom
And asked for Alex Milat by name.
"Who?" said a voice, incredulous.
"Why, they're not living here no more.
They moved out nearly two years ago.
Hey, aren't you the weirdo who lives next door?"
XIII
No matter how easy or sweet life is,
Be sure - your life will change;
There is a shadow hangs over us
That leaves none of us the same.
There is another person waiting to come
Buried in your deepest core:
You'll be found out. Who you really are
Lives behind your very own door.
There's violence on the television
And letter bombs in the mail:
But things can't be all that bad
'Cos Derryn Hinch went to jail.
Famine eats up children;
The peace talks always fail:
But things can't be all that bad
'Cos Derryn Hinch went to jail.
You might have double malaria -
Doctors see you and go pale:
But things can't be all that bad
'Cos Derryn Hinch went to jail.
Christ Himself on the cross
Told the guy banging in the nail:
"Mate, things can't be all that bad
'Cos Derryn Hinch went to jail."
I can put up with Ronald Reagan
I can put up with Micham Begin
I can put up with tetraplegia
I can put up with total amnesia
I can put up with black spiky hair
I can put up with germ warfare
I can put up with Chasers and Inflation
I can put up with hyperventilation
I can put up with bowel dysfunction
I can put up with nuclear destruction
I can put up with Mike Willesse - well, at a pinch:
But one thing I can not put up with is Derryn fucking Hinch.
Volare... oh, oh!...
cantare... oh, oh, oh, oh!
nel blu, dipinto di blu
felice di stare lass
Ma tutti i sogni nell'alba svaniscon perch
Quando tramonta, la luna li porta con
Ma io continuo a sognar e
negli occhi tuoi belli, che sono blu
come un cielo trapunto di stelle.
If I were Britney's boyfriend
I'd be playing hard to get
She'd come around beggin' for me, but
I'd say, "No no, not yet.
Cos God has told me personally
That I should remain pure.
Just love me, baby, for myself."
And more of that manure.
Thou Shalt Not Britney Spear
Britney would go off her tree
At my refusal
"I'm Britney freakin' Spears,
Rejection's not that usual."
"I love you, darling, for yourself,"
I'd explain to little Miss
"It's your personality I like.
Not your body. Serious."
As far as a coy mistress goes
You'll like it more than she
When, upon her curt refusal
You whole-heartedly agree
Girls justly hate the lecher man
With sweating, hairy paw
But what happens when Boy says no?
They hate that even more
"Just like I told J-Lo," I'd say,
"It's not your fame and wealth,
It's not your perfect bod and face
It's you I want. Yourself.
Jesus wouldn't like us to
If he ever knew it"
"Stuff him," I'm sure she'd say
"Come on, babe, let's do it."
It was at that very bar I had my worst trip -
It was only last Saturday, I'd come to the Grip
With Keegan and Troy and a few other skegs
When this weird dude comes up to me and he says:
"I got some leaf the other day up at Byron
And a couple of cones - you wanna try 'em?"
Now, I know I was pissed and the light's pretty bad
But I looked at this dude - and it was my dad!
I was speechless - I stayed rigid with fright.
He said: "Do you know Evan censored fucked Kylie censored Friday night?"
His hair was in dreds; his T-shirt said Slaam -
I couldn't believe this was the old man.
I see him every day hanging around with bankers.
"TISM play here next Saturday", he said. "They're wankers."
"But Dad...", I stammered, "you're...you're...I mean, you're not..."
Just then my Uncle Leroy came up. "Woa", he said. "Awesome pot."
I looked 'round this club - my sight, it was hazy -
But there was Aunt Ethol, and Uncle Fred, and wife Daisy!
My eyes finally focused on this host of drug takers:
My whole family was here - and they'd turned into skaters.
"Gotta lash, dude", said Dad, "can't afford to linger
I gotta get your mum home for a bit of stinkfinger."
I fainted right there in a swoon on the floor;
Keegan and Troy took me out by that very door.
It was like watching a movie from end to beginin';
It was like forcing Michael censored to fuck older women;
It was all in reverse, all a horrid contrast -
It was like seeing Jennifer censored put the Coke bottle up Johnny censored's arse.
I woke up next morning - all was normal again.
"Listen son", said Dad, "I want you home by ten.
You were raving last night; your friends are all thugs;
You were so out of it I think you're on drugs."
I grabbed his hand, said, "Dad - thank god it's you!
And you're telling me off! Oh Dad, I love you!!"
"Smartarse", he muttered, and went off to work
The same boring, normal, conventional jerk.
So skaters and skegheads and surfers - be warned -
Thank god for parents and teachers and policeman uniformed:
Remember as you slag them off and you cuss;
When you are forced to do homework, and at the next drug bust -
I have had a vision of a world even more suss.
Remember - it would be worse if they acted like us.
Children soften their parents' hardened features;
Students busy buying presents for their teachers;
Wives cuddle husbands, and playfully tease 'em;
Poets write lyrics, some of which please 'em;
A stone fells bird, only manages to stun her;
Spring's allowed to stay around for Summer;
Casting doubts away, it's time to find
A gentle, literate woman, fuck her from behind.
'Huntington's disease, however, is a rare, fatal inherited disorder for which no known cure exists. The patient suffers progressive loss of mental functioning due to brain-cell death in the region of the basal ganglia, along with the depletion of some neurotransmitters and the buildup of another-dopamine. The symptoms appear at almost any age but most commonly in the thirties and forties, and death follows in 10 to 20 years...'
Once my life was easy:
It was just like watchin' TV
And I was the lucky audience member
Who's playin' Price Is Right -
I came on down every night -
Could come five times a night, too, I remember.
But let me tell you pal
That there's another game as well,
But you won't see the fucker on T.V -
It's called Fortune's Wheel,
And no matter how you feel,
Adrianna will turn the letters "R.I.P".
One day it's gonna start:
Everything will fall apart -
There's programming, too, in your bones.
One night you go out dancin'
Thinkin' that you're Hanson,
Then you wake up and you are the Rolling Stones.
All of life is lived in stages;
You're going out to rages
And you and your friends know all the right grooves;
But there ain't no use hidin' -
The cells have begun dividin'
And it's time you learnt the dopamine moves.
Don't you get a fucking shock-o
When you watch one of those doco's
'Bout those diseases that means you're born with flippers?
Or you're feeling sort of well 'n'
Next thing, it's the Peter McCallum
For the haircut they give you without clippers.
You wont be fucking laughin', son,
When you're interviewed by Parkinson,
Or star in a mini-series called Alzheimer.
You'll be picking up the tab
When they order you a nice cold slab -
And I don't mean the 24 can type either.
One day you're collecting Tazo's,
The next you are a spazo:
I only know one way to ease the pain -
Pick a way to go
That the doctors don't know
And they might give the fucking germ your fucking name.
(Let me take a quick ad break
During which I'd like to make
An apology to go here in a bracket:
That Tazo/Spazo rhyme -
It wish that it weren't mine:
Where'd I get my poetic license? A packet?)
So kiss the wife for me -
You can live quite happily,
Watchin' T.V together as you sup;
But just like a bad dream, oh,
You'll play a game called Chemo -
Spot. Match. Win. Your numbers have come up.
I been listenin' to silverchair, now I wish I was a freak;
Been readin' The River Ophelia - I'd love a masochistic streak;
But I am just a normal guy - I even use capital "S" -
Why, I'd rather tell the papers that I secretly cross-dress;
Women Who Run With Men Who Hate Wolves just left me unimpressed -
I'm sure that I'd be happier if I could be more depressed.
To get anywhere these days it seems a problem's a necessity;
Your father's gay; heroin's passe - just another fashion accessory;
I tried Recovered Memory, but that put me in a bind
Cos I became hypnotically aware my Dad was really kind.
You might have once been traumatized, but we're not all similarly blessed -
I'm sure that I'd be happier if I could be more depressed.
I went along to the Men's Movement - "Stop crying, girl," they'd shout;
Steve Biddulph, who wrote that Manhood book, got up and punched my lights out;
I went along to the women's room, but all I did was get it wrong -
I told 'em Smack Your Bitch Up was my current favorite song;
"But the Prodigy are so confronting," I tried vainly to protest:
I'm sure that I'd be happier if I could be more depressed.
I lied to the Gambling Help Line, said I'd made my family poor -
When I asked what chance recovery, they offered me nine to four;
I rang that Alan Jones guy up, but he couldn't help me either:
"You a battler or a bludger?" he said - it turns out, I was neither!
"Come back when you're a stereotype if you wanna be in the press."
I'm sure that I'd be happier if I could be more depressed.
Finally I told the wife the reason I'd been so undemanding,
And what was worse, she took it well, and was totally understanding;
Those self-destructing relationships are simply too much fuss:
Whose Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Well, I gotta say, not us -
Would you believe I like my kids? Can you get more mentally messed?
I'm sure that I'd be happier if I could be more depressed.
Why is it just so hard for me to take things way too far?
I'd like to travel beyond good and evil, but first I gotta wash the car;
I'd like to get a nipple ring and connect it to my dodger,
But somehow it just don't suit a bloke whose name is plain old Roger-
I'd be a member of the underclass, but they'd laugh at how I dressed:
I'm sure that I'd be happier if I could be more depressed.
So it looks like I got to give up my dream of joining the Bad Seeds -
Those guys can't handle confronting concepts, like "thanks" and "please"
Sneaking 16 things in the "12 Items Only" aisle will be my biggest sin;
It's the shopping center of modern consciousness that I will stay trapped in -
I buy my junk from off the streets - I find The Trading Post's the best:
I'm sure that I'd be happier if I could be more depressed.
I just know I can't be creative. Why? I'm not depressed enough -
Yet I wish I was the guy who wrote: "If you're creative - get stuffed."
There's a competition going to have the most painful lives,
But the pain you feel from nine to five I guess don't qualify.
Your life might be miserable, but that don't stop your art from being crappier:
I'm sure that I would be more depressed if I wasn't happier.
I've been working 76 hours per week;
I hate every moment -
But I do it because
Somehow I like the pain.
Chorus:
I'm fucked in the head.
When I was five years old
I fell in love with my sister;
I still have a strange attraction
To women with faces like her.
Deep down I'm guilty still
About my treatment of my peers -
I used to think they were the fiddle,
And I was Nero and Rome was burning.
I was born in the emergency lane
Of a 6-lane German autobahn
The opening of the first 8 lane fly-over
Was my old father's favourite yarn
I'd knew that I'd be, sooner or later
The famous Mordialloc Road duplicator.
From lower Springvale to the Frankston Freeway
Until you get to that bitumen stain
That runs between two road highways,
Happy people trapped in its invidious single lane.
If you're behind a truck or freighter
Say, "Thank god for the Mordialloc Road duplicator".
So I work for the RCA
I got big bulldozers and earth shifters
I dig all those cut away slopes
With 700 tonne capacity lifters
If you're interested in roadworks, see me later
I'm the Mordialloc Road duplicator
One day all the way to Portsea
It'll be all big divided freeways
There'll be turn offs to Tootgarook
Cranbourne, Frankston and Five Ways
The whole peninsula will be my crater
I'm the Mordialloc Road duplicator.
All you people on Christmas vacation
Here is the reason for jubilation:
There ain't no better road works in the nation
Than the Mordialloc Road duplication.
in a tiny inner-city pub, the amps were being stacked
leads were getting wound up, it was full of pissed anzacs
got no more gigs for tuesday nights, said the barman to the star
we're putting pokies in the lounge and strippers in the bar
the star, he raised his fingers and said, "fuck this fuckin hole"
but to his faithful roadie he says, it's the death of rock and roll
there ain't a single place that's left to play amplified guitar
every place is serving long blacks and become a become a tapist bar
his dirty denim jacket was gaffered and turning black
hair was missing on his forehead but it reached right down his back
i don't blame that barman bastard he told his roadie, "hey, fuck no"
i blame all those faggot wankers, who are playing this techno
brothers couldn't work it out, get fucked, they can kiss my rotten ass
work out what happened to real music, is what i'd like to ask
everything is all machine, run with middy and lay dash,
but all they do is go ping ping ping like a truck that's backing back
who the fuck are the chemical brothers, that they now call the shots
goldies the name of the light beer, elastica holds up socks
the roadies sat there silent next to the ejaculating star
what's the fucken point of drum and bass, if no one can play guitar?
CHORUS
aussie, (aussie guitar)
aussie, (aussie guitar)
have you seen those fucken clubbers, with their peroxided dreds?
dressed up in fucking adidas, like fucking fucked fuckheads
i wouldn't drop a tab of E, if you fuckin paid me man
i got the guts for LSD, and the only jungle i know is man
these roadies sat still silent, but then he finally began to speak
actually star, i maybe shoulda told you this last week
but i scored a job as DJ at the latest techno club
i'm sick of working with a loser, see ya later bob
well the roadie owned the PA and the roadie owned the ute,
the roadie told star to get out or he'd bash one up his shoot
and there on that cold freeway, star walked along alone
of course he got kicked out halfway between emergency telephones
CHORUS
aussie
aussie, (aussie guitar)
aussie, (aussie guitar)
aussie, (aussie guitar)
aussie, (aussie guitar)
aussie, (what a man, what a man, what a man)
"fuck ya's all", said star aloud in the emergency stopping lane
to quote from that chick juliet, hey what's in her name?
a good song's just a good song, just the same as long ago
but dressing up as something new and suddenly you're picasso
every white bald pommy cunt, thinks that you're so hip
read MNE from ten years ago and there's all the same dickslip
prodigy are just the band who are getting it just this year
rolling stones got no more cred. than fucken new idea
stars anguish voice rolls in grief as he cryed unto the moon
in the end when all is said and done, a tune's just a fucking tune
star played his amp far too loud, his hearing was sorta gone
so he never heard the grinding squeal as the truckie put the brakes on
26 road train wheels, played a tune upon his head
"he just wondered into the traffic", the distraught driver said
the cops had seen it all before, the ambels washed the freeway clean
there ain't no contest when you put a man against a machine
aussie
aussie (aussie guitar)
aussie (aussie guitar)
aussie (what a man, what a man, what a man)
aussie
aussie
aussie, (aussie guitar)
aussie,
aussie,
aussie, (it's a man against machine)
I'm a bogan, baby, always was;
I'm only happy when I punch a Mod -
And in walks this pine head turd,
I looked at my mates, said, "Thank you, God."
Dyed black hair, done all spiky;
Saw him laugh when they played Bon Jovi;
Had a jacket on just like a bikie;
If there's a bigger Mod, could you please show me?
Chorus
Snot nosed jumped up little bludger,
When I see ya, wanna punch ya.
Me and my mates were gathered round;
What was on? Well, nothing much.
Had me pair of mockers on -
Denims nearly crushed my crutch;
Thought I'd go into town,
But then I said, "Well, what the fuck?"
Fosters Car Park, I've always found -
Just hang out there and I'm in luck.
So we followed this guy out of the pub,
Told him, "Rock and roll will never die",
Then down on the dirty bitumen
Me mates and I showed him just why.
Do you wanna die for art?
Do you wear black leather pants?
Come on down to Fosters Car Park,
Me and the boys give you your chance.
Five points for hitting petrol-heads, Jet-skiers too
No points for hitting P Platers, they do the work for you
Three points for a Volvo-driver, dock one for stereotyping
But here's the way to maximm points, you'll do it without trying
Ten points for a razor scooter, double if it's not a kid
Smash a Pumpkin, kill a Heidi, celebrity's worth a fiver
Hit anyone on Reality TV, call it "Non-Survivor"
Three points for a pagan worshipper, four if they go to heaven
Five for a World Business Leader, plus six for S Eleven
There's no point to this world, let's make that clear
But you can leave your mark, on a smaller sphere
Tell the cops "He just came out of nowhere"
One point for road rage tailgaiters
Two for custom license platers
Three for the Beamer driving ponce
Four for a limo full of debutantes
Five for the re-made retro classic
Six for the original while we're at it
Seven if it's open-top red and sporty
Bonus if the driver's over forty
Eight for bumper-sticker teasers
Remember to honk if you love Jesus
We must observe equal opportunity
Put the pedal to the metal and hit everybody.
Take your love;
Boil it in a pot -
Scrape the sides
From bottom to top;
Wrap the rest in The Age,
Tie it in a knot,
Bury it deep in the ground
And forget the lot.
Wait twenty years
In secret hope:
Nothing ever grows.
If your Luke Perry sideburns just wont grow - that's dancin'!
Or if you can't seem to dress like they do in Cosmo - that's dancin'!
You admitted you don't like the taste of alcohol - that's dancin'!
You thought "mull" was a Paul Mc Artney song - that's dancin'!
Chorus
So give us none of your aggravation
We've had it with your discipline
Saturday night's alright for fighting
Except when you have to stay in
Strictly lounge room
You know it's time to get the razor blade out
Step into that noose and swing
When it's Saturday night and you're all by yourself
Watching re-runs of That's Dancin'
There's a party goin' on down the local church hall - that's dancin'!
You know some people going, all you need to do is call - that's dancin'!
Leave your lonely room tonight and you'll be saved - that's dancin'!
But you flick on ABC and foxtrot your chance away - that's dancing
I was waiting at the Pearly Gates
But the angels said "It's members only, mate"
St. Peter was shepherding in the meek
But all he said to me was "Schoolies Week."
Lucifer's got issues with Paradise
So he blocked the view with miles of high-rise
Car yards far as the eye can see
And a million teens who think they're free
Schoolies Week
Schoolies Week
In Hell it's always
Schoolies Week
Devil don't need fire and brimstone
His place is full of kids with mobile phones
You still hear weeping and gnashing teeth
But that's just bad E and too much lemon Ruski
Monday!! - Binge drinking
Tuesday!! - The world owes yuo a living
Wednesday!! - Everyone calls you "man"
Thursday!! - Every car's a Divvy Van
Friday!! - One big Desperate Dateless Ball
Saturday!! - Sorted for Rohipnol
Sunday!! - Wake up with vomit breath
Monday!! - Back to the start again
So you better pray you haven't been bad
Or you could wake up in a "Say No To Drugs" ad
Devil rubs his hands in glee
And in a booming voice shouts: "Fluffy Ducks are on me!"
I don't want to live and I don't want to die
I want to shoot heroin through the eye;
I want it to shine and I want it to rain
I want to get hit by a freight train.
Chorus:
Be-bop-a-lula-a-lom-bam-balsy
I think I got Saturday night palsy
A wom-bom-a-lu-bom-ba-lom-bam-balsy
I think I got Saturday night palsy
Someone better shoot me before it's too late
I wanna be impaled on a fifty foot stake
My V.U. meter's in the overload
I think my aorta is gonna explode.
I got a brand new car and a new set of clothes
I wanna pull my brain out through my nose
Show me to women and show me to the bar
I wanna jump into a vat of hot tar.
Everybody's got it,
Every guy and girl:
Wait until you snuff it,
You'll have it as well.
The pus of the dead is yummy,
It froths up on your mouth,
It comes up in your tummy
When you've run out of health.
It is yellow and sticky
And it's waiting just for you.
It tastes much worse than bickies -
I'd rather eat my poo.
I've got trouble with my mother;
I've got trouble with my wife;
I've got an apple fritter -
Slit my stomach open.
Chorus:
Whole lotta love
Pus Pus Pus Pus
John Mc. Clintoff
John Mc. Clintoff
Slip on my ice;
Slip on my slide;
Who is that rectangular man?
Fifteen men don't make a football team.
I know that the Romans came after the Greeks;
I went to a lecture to hear Robert Hughes speak -
I am honoured, cultured, literate - and yet
All of my life I've had one main regret.
I wish I'd slept with more girls;
I wish I'd had more sex;
I wish my wife had'a sucked my dick.
They told me the yobbos would turn out no good -
I did my homework, they turned into hoods -
I have a family. I am happy and proud.
I said no to anything I wasn't allowed.
I wish I'd done more drugs;
I wish I'd snorted coke;
I wish I had taken the risk.
The Angel of Death hovers overhead.
My family, come, gather 'round the bed;
Come my colleagues, come literate friends.
Here is my last wish, as my life ends.
I wish you'd written my books;
I wish you'd married my wife;
I wish you owned my home;
I wish my thoughts were yours;
I wish my life weren't mine;
I wish you'd never known me at all;
I wish you'd take my place;
I wish it were you lying here;
I wish you'd all get fucked.
"There's seven different movies at the city multiplex;
Let's both not go to school today and give the brain a rest -
You can't say missing one day could be taken seriously -
You can be sure that no-one will tell either families."
She thought about it for a while, then let go her old school bag;
"O.K," she told him, "I'm with you." Both teachers said: "Let's wag."
That day Constable Harrison was browsing city streets;
He walked along commandingly up and down Swanston Street.
A skateboarding kid flew right down the railings of St Paul's;
"Filthy move," said Con. Harrison, "But, ah oh - duty calls."
He walked right into Brashes and walked out suspiciously.
"Here," he told the skateboarding kid, "just flogged you this C.D."
The kid just pushed his dreadlocks back and looked up in surprise -
All he saw was a drug crazed stare deep in the policeman's eyes:
"I'm disappointed in you, dude," the skater told the cop:
"If we all had your attitude, it would be just great - not.
I'm gonna let you off this once, but just you look out, son.
Next time I'll call the cops, my boy." "Like, I care," said Harrison.
Harrison at the city looked - these were the real clean streets:
Gangs of polite teenagers played rap songs like Help da Police;
The new gardens were growing where the casino once stood,
The trains, they ran bang smack on time, and people thought they would;
Husbands sat in discrete cafes and flirted with their wives;
"I'll give you head," all girlfriends said; "Don't worry," said the guys.
The skater got back on his board, and rode off carefully;
Behind a fence two teachers hid, so that he couldn't see;
"Satan's spawn!" one teacher said, "that was a year nine kid!
The one I caught just yesterday repairing his desk lid."
"He didn't see," the other said, "thank god that we weren't sprung.
I hope I die before I'm him - who'd wanna be that young?"
Somewhere a distant song did play, the number one chart track.
"That's TISM," said one teacher - then: "I hate that mainstream crap.
Give me Billy Joel any day - TISM's just for fathers.
They're so ugly I think they should start wearing balaclavas."
(And so it is that even in a world where hot is cold
It seems that teachers still listen to a turd like Billy Joel.)
Harrison saw them both and said "Shouldn't you be at school?"
"Yeah, that's right cop," both of them said, and Harrison said: "Cool."
"Got any dope?" the policeman said, and then he looked disgusted,
'Cos both teachers admitted "Nope." That's right, folks - they're busted.
"I'm taking a dim view of this." The teachers' faces paled.
(They wouldn've been in trouble with a cop from New South Wales.)
"I'm taking you back home right now - don't dare not call me pig -
And you can explain why you were caught drug free to your kids."
I hope this is a lesson that all of you understand:
Wag school, and the next thing you know, you're in paddie van.
You can imagine, I suppose, the scene in the kitchen -
The teenage sons and daughters weep, the teachers think, "Bitchin' "
What's become of our social state, when it has come to this?
A teenage child just can't control their folks' rebelliousness?
Later that night the youngest child sat reading in her bed
("Don't stay up late" she told her mum) and to her self she said:
"I've heard that once in primary school they had Opposite Day,
Where what you said and what you meant both went two different ways.
"So if you liked someone you said "I think you really suck,"
Then said "On opposite day!" - that meant they were in luck.
But imagine if this happened not just in primary school,
And everywhere and everyone followed this kiddie rule!
Imagine an opposite world, though it is hard to do -
Newspapers for illiterates! Leaders say untruths!
"The best people this world ignores whilst the brats it coddles;
Rockstars are seen as serious - also supermodels;
In this world the actors would be treated as if they're kings,
And ordinary folks would just be like anonymous nothings."
The little girl put down her book, and rest her sleepy head.
"But that world could never exist. Thank you, Satan," she said.
Don't get off the train at Richmond
The skins want your Doc Martins
Don't get off the train at Camberwell
The writers want your Air Jordons
Don't get off the train at Essendon
You'll get attacked for your moccas
Don't get off the train at Frankston
You'll get attacked by the rockers
Don't get off the train at Eltham
The yodel yobs want your lederhosen
Don't get off the train at Caulfield
The yid boys want your copy of The Chosen
Don't get off the train at Broadie
The petrol heads want your Torana
Don't get off the train at Laverton
The gorilla gang wants your banana
Don't get off the train at Broadford
The bikies want your leather jacket
Don't get off the train at Kooyong
Tennis toughs want your racket
Don't get off the train at Box Hill
The skaters want your ramp
Don't get off the train at Noble Park
3174 want your postage stamp
Don't get off the train at Ringwood
The Goths want your mascara
Don't get off the train at Windsor
The sandmen want your pyjamas
Jimbo, boy, you're a croc of shit,
You're a boozed, selfish thug;
Why don't you give your mouth a go
And in the other hole put a plug?
By Christ you've got a long long way
On a schoolboy's talent with words -
One crappy bit of symbolism
And you're adored by a army of turds.
You're a selfish, rude, arrogant prick;
You're basically pretty stupid;
Your mysticism's a lump of shit,
And so are all the girls you rooted.
So don't talk about being sad and lonely
Or fucking misunderstood
Because underneath that self-pitying phoney
Is a brutal, selfish hood.
I support the police that took you off stage,
I support the fact you bled;
I support the cops who carried you off,
I support the fact you're dead.
I think that you're a troubled guy
And I think that's nothing new;
I think your fans are a bunch of turds
Almost as immature as you.
And when I'm in my supermarket
And some prick pushes in front of my trolley
I'll be reminded of your stinking bravado
And I'll ask the cunt to say sorry.
You fans would excuse any rudeness
Just because it comes from you -
You'd tell them to go drop dead
And they'd say, "Oh, how true, how true, how TRUE."
You need a nine to five job, Jimbo;
You need to get to Flinders St. by train -
Go and find yourself a regular income,
Then you can write a song about pain.
Try and save for the kids' school fees;
Take some care when you drive a car;
Put your rubbish in a bin
You fucking great rock super star.
You've spawned a host of cock-sure shits
Who are nearly always filthy rich,
And think because they're a bit like Jimbo
They can act like stinking pricks:
An army of brainless, arty youth
That look down upon us common plods -
But they barrack for good ol' Jimbo
Like the fucking Richmond cheer squad.
So when you're listening to Morrison Hotel
And Jimbo's in top form
Whining about this harsh cruel world
And the fact he was ever born
Remember that his fans are rapt
And mourning their suffering lives,
And go down and discuss it at Subterrain -
And least, if Daddy'll drive.
Jimbo, king of the private school kids:
The girls from P.L.C.
Who identify with his tortured soul
Because they've got dropped by friend number three,
Who was Kent from Xavier College -
In H.S.C. he got a "A" for English,
And between Jimbo and William Blake
He hasn't the brains to distinguish.
Jimbo, father of a generation
Of private school depression idols;
From Nick Cave on, they don't kill themselves -
Just tell us why they're suicidal.
He's made self-pity legitimate;
It means we'll have to face
One after another artist with integrity,
Like REO Speedwagon - sorry, I meant Hugo Race.
Well, up your arse Jimbo old man,
Up your fucking hole:
You're a prick pure and simple -
It's about time you were told;
And up your arse to all your fans;
Up your arse to your tortured, artistic hell;
And while we're fucking at it,
Up your arse to Morrissey as well;
Up your arse to Robert Smith;
Up your arse to Albert Camus;
All those "I'm suffering for my arty" types,
Jimbo, I blame them all on you.
Anyone who handles life's pain
With a token of mature self examination -
It's time they told these pounces to stick it
Up their bogus self infatuation:
And if you think I'll stop at this,
The answer is, no way, never -
If you think Jim Morrison was a wanker,
Well, Christ - I can rave on like this forever.
[from: "Sixteen Nights of Violent Orgasm With The Masters of English Literature"]
T.S. Eliot tuned the radio, couldn't get rid of the static:
Serves him right for being so fucking enigmatic.
T.S. Eliot fixed his motor car, snapped the clutch cable -
Betcha my youngest daughter could drink him under the table.
T.S. Eliot lost his wallet when he went into town;
Serves him right for hanging round with the likes of Ezra Pound.
T.S. Eliot thinks he's famous because he is a genius -
But don't cha know I'm ambivalent about the modernist achievement.
It's a haunting world we live in full of despair
I ponder on man's great questions as I whittle away my chair
I've seen a lot of problems in my lonely life
Torment and psychosis - where'd I put that pocket knife?
How can man be so oppressed if we are all born free?
I sit alone and wonder with shavings up to my knees
There must be something that can be done for those of us that are able
I'll get to the problem right away, but first I'll get rid of my dining table.
I know how to cheat at Tattslotto
I got a great idea for a song
I know the truth about Marylin Monroe
I can prove Einstein's theory wrong
But that's not what motivates me.
I'm interested in apathy.
I can predict mankind's fate
I know where there's oil in Bass Straight
All the deserts I could irrigate!
All the poor I could emancipate!
But none of this petty stuff for me.
I'm interested in apathy.
I've got the cure for all known disease
I know how to make money grow on trees
I know how to stop terrorism
I know one of the guys in TISM
Enough of this wretched pedantry.
I'm interested in apathy.
Here we are at the last verse.
I've lost interest.
Howdy champ - you been pickin' the daisies?
Feelin' sort of morally lazy?
Ready to go mother fucking crazy?
Please to meet you - name's Marty Scorcese.
Why don't we go catch a movie?
Something light hearted and woozy
About the killing of teenage floozy,
Or beating someone black and bloozy.
Got this mate called Robbie Di Nero;
Like him a lot, he's a goddamn hero -
Drop around there for a drink of beer- Oh,
You'll end up feelin' like zero.
Just when I feel my happiness startin'
I bump into this guy called Martin.
I.
The scene at Appomattox;
The Greeks at Thermopylae;
The men at Dienbienphu
Lining up to die:
A million ghosts will stop the throat
Of any who does mock
General Grant and General Lee
And all at Appomattox.
II.
There in every classroom;
In every secondary school;
And in every workplace,
Every typing pool;
There, beside you on the bus,
With that lifeless stare -
Nervously, outside surgery,
Waiting for doctors there...
III.
There's cancer in the South of France;
Cancer lurks in Rome;
Cancer circles the whole world
Until it finds you home.
In heart and liver it is waiting
For all of us, or most;
Our very cells join hands and sing -
"Loser - losing - lost."
Turn off S.B.S,
Forget Mary Kostakidis -
Like the rest of us, I guess,
She can no longer so impress;
Why continue to keep trying
To separate the real news from the lying?
In the end it all comes to this
We all eventually switch
To lying and deception;
Like some inner technical hitch,
We choose the other bitch;
We choose beauty over truth;
And, like Mary, after youth?
Dead air! Loss of all reception.
Turn off S.B.S,
Forget Mary Kostakidis -
Like the rest of us, I guess,
She can no longer so impress;
Why continue to keep trying
To separate the real news from the lying?
In the end it all comes to this
Don't want no fifties rockabilly - I want Milli Vanilli
Don't want no Noiseworks woman hot chilli - I want Milli Vanilli
Don't want doctor send me no billy - I want Milli Vanilli
Don't want push no boulder up hilly - I want Milli Vanilli
Don't want no colt don't want no filly - I want Milli Vanilli
Don't want no dress with lace up frilly - I want Milli Vanilli
Don't want no Jack don't want no Jilly - I want Milli Vanilli
Don't want no oven don't want no frilly - I want Milli Vanilli
Don't want no cryin' over milk spilly I - want Milli Vanilli
Don't want Lillee caught Tilly bowled Dilly - I want Milli Vanilli
Don't want to live at Kirribilli - I want Milli Vanilli
Don't want no birth control pilly - I want Milli Vanilli
Don't want dentist tooth drilly - I want Milli Vanilli
Don't want to listen to Bob Dilly - I want Milli Vanilli
Don't want to write no lyric silly - I want Milli Vanilli
O.K. You come up with something better fuckface.
Why worry about the lives we're trying to save
When we're born astride a grave?
Being healthy is carcinogenic -
Life's a game show called It's Epidemic.
Chorus
Life Kills Life Kills
Life's a sentence, read all about it.
Why aren't crocodiles vegetarian?
How come Attila wasn't a hunny?
Why didn't Hitler stay a librarian?
Why don't people find rock bands funny?
Who invented the businessman?
Who told bankers the meaning of loan?
Who gave us writer, critic and fan?
Who told teenagers they've got a mind of their own?
I'm going down to the Waterside Workers Hotel
I'll wear women's clothing, and I'll yell:
"Here's a broken bottle, boys - send me to hell."
With life as an alternative, I might as well.
I'm dying; I'm dying; I'm dying; life kills!
You're dying the moment the sperm hits the ovum;
You're dying as a foetus, breathing though gills;
You're dying at birth; there ain't no supposin' -
You die all your life, and even Blind Freddy
Knows your children will die - true perspective! -
Your parents will die (if they're not dead already);
Life is just death, made retrospective.
You're trapped all your life, from the very first moment,
By your mother and father, who must've been mad
When they decided to add to their own entombment
By having a child, like their own Mum and Dad's
Mum and Dad's Mum and Dad's Mum and Dad's Mum and Dad.
Philip Larkin described it in a poem; I cried:
Families, he said, in Home Is So Sad,
"Are a joyous shot at how things ought to be ... fallen ide."
It stays with you forever; you'll never lose it;
Your family has got you in a grip-like vice -
It's entrapment so effective you always choose it;
Put an ad in the paper: "Lost - Paradise."
You're always a daughter or always a son,
Even when mother's a loser and dad wants to bolt;
Do what you like, you can hide - but you can't run.
If your parents have split up, it's probably your fault.
Guilt clings to you like shit in a nappy,
Don't listen to what the counselors say -
Without you your parents may just have been happy:
It's war, and you're not escaping - you're running away.
Be a lawyer! Be a doctor! You're still putrid;
It's still true that your parents are rooted;
There's divorce in the air - at least, it's mooted -
If they took my advice they'd both get neutered.
It's the same in all homes. Be it penthouse or pavement,
Every house is so economically run:
Your parents give credit, and you give repayment -
You want asylum - instead, you end up in one.
There's no such thing as forgiveness; forget absolution;
Your life will be frittered away with worry and bills -
And you crowning achievement? Reproduction!
I'm dying; I'm dying; I'm dying; life kills!
You're gonna have children; you know it, you fuck -
You and your wife just don't know how many;
Part of me sorta wishes you luck,
'Cos I love children - and that's why I'm not having any.
And your family will fail; and your life will be torture;
And your wife will turn ugly; and your children be dills;
'Cos you haven't forgotten the lessons mum and dad taught a -
I'm dying; I'm dying; I'm dying; life kills!
I can see you with cancer both in and around you,
The internal expression of external ills;
I can see you dying with your family around you -
I'm dying; I'm dying; I'm dying; life kills!
I can see you look petulantly around you
At all the things that you've never had,
I can see the paramedics pound you
As you die a child, just like your dad.
Then your body is all that's left of what's been you -
The chest stops jerking and the movement stills,
The pus of the dead is coming up within you -
I'm dying; I'm dying; I'm dying; life kills!
Hold on a second, I wanna come with you!
I'm dying; I'm dying; I'm dying; life kills!
You're like a father; now you're gone, I'll miss you -
I'm dying; I'm dying; I'm dying; life kills!
Pain only stops when mothers kiss you -
I'm dying; I'm dying; I'm dying; life kills!
Excuse me, can I have this dance?
There's an ill will blowin' in my pants
My friends call me John, you can call me Breaker Morant.
Let's club it to death.
Chorus
Gimme your seal of approval
Let's club it to death.
I started the day with cereal
Now I'm feelin' kinda ethereal
It's gonna end in something venereal
Let's club it to death.
There's a tiger in my tank
There's a burglar in my bank
There's sauce on my footy frank
Let's club it to death.
You say tomato, I say tomato;
You say Oscar Wilde, I say Rambo;
You say art, I say relevant;
You say rock, I say intelligent.
Chorus:
Let's form a company,
Let's do it now;
Let's form a company,
Let's do it immediately.
You say books, I say reality;
You say journalist, I say originality;
You say Sting, I say humility;
You say Bond, I say university.
You say Bono, I say credible;
You say Mc. Donalds, I say edible;
You say religion, I say pacifism;
You say quality, I say TISM.
Please let me introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste-
But just like that first line, my ideas all come from another place.
I'm gonna tell you a story, the main character? - well, it's me,
And it all starts way back when I was in grade three.
I had the block's biggest marble collection; no, that's a lie -
My neighbor Johnny had swapped three Jumbos for my one cat's eye,
Then he told me that Jumbos were no longer the rage;
Which shows I was a fashion victim even back at that age.
Anyway, I remember, it was the second week of term two,
And just like normal I brought my marble bag to school;
But imagine the shock and horror! for, behind my back,
Everyone else in the playground had brought along click-clacks!
How was it? By some mysterious mutual chemistry
They all knew click-clacks were in! No one ever told me!
How was it that, in the space of one otherwise normal night,
everyone came to school the next day, not a marble bag in sight!
And now I'm in a rock band, and everything's the same;
Just when I'm honing my line in tortured artistic pain
You find out that tortured poetry ain't no longer the thing -
Now everyone's playing Cajun - Zydico - whatever you call that thing.
I go off and buy the records, learn how to cook Jumbulya -
Then everyone's dropping Ecstasy; the dance clubs are on fire -
I start talking about Louisiana, everyone tells me to stop:
Just like the coming of click-clacks comes something called Hip-Hop.
Shakespearean plays are the quintessential expression of human tragedy -
Can't understand them myself, but that's what my friends tell me -
Anyway, the only genuine thought I've ever been able to expound
Is that the world ain't a stage, it's a primary school play ground,
And that some people are like the kids who knew when to stop
Playing games like Ker-Plunk, and get into Battling Tops;
Then there's people like me, who always seem to find
That after we've bought our baseball jackets, we've been left behind.
I've come to understand that it's just like musical chairs,
When it's groovy to say "groovy" and O.K. to wear flares:
So the final piece of advice I give is that you should all beware,
'Cos when you're in the jungle, watch it: it's a playground out there.
I dipped my donga in some dog food, I found I couldn't stop;
Wanted to get some more, but it was a long way to the shop.
Don't know what I'm doing, but I sure know where I've been -
I've been stickin' it in Chumpy dog food ever since I was nineteen.
What has happened to the dialectic between my brain and my dick?
Lookin' at that Chumpy nearly makes me sick;
But that sticky, drippin' dick of mine's got its own ideology -
All I want my dong to do is have a simple wee.
My dick's gone all didactic; I'm nearly going spastic;
I see that Chumpy on Red Spot Special, it draws me like elastic.
I know more about pet food than other's have forgotten -
So bend over Fido, let me knead your bottom.
I'll be your back-door man
Rectangular with a wire-mesh screen
I'll be your back-door man
Rectangular with a wire-mesh screen
I'll be your back-door man
By the way, how are the kids?
I'm your little red rooster baby
I prefer wheat to pellets
I'm your little red rooster
Hey I like the way you interpreted that opportunist go a lot if.
You're like a hound dog baby
You hear really high-pitched whistles
You're like a hound dog baby
Go on the best yep wop ho
I've been down so goddam long
I must remember to pick up a tube of Deep Heat rub
I've been down so very damn long
I said woe-den boe-den stink me out in woops.
Some people think it's in your genes
Others find that view extreme
Either way, like an old has-been
You're finished now when you're fourteen
The pressure's on - you're off the pace
If agents aren't around your place
Bidding for your fresh young face
You ain't so hard to replace
If you're not famous ar fourteen, you're finished
At ten you join some theatre crew
At eight you've been on T.V. too
At three, he can't sing "Beaches" through?
Book that kid more Gymbaroo!
There ain't no scouts from A.F.L?
There ain't no show reel! What the hell!?
No T.V? Not even Foxtel!?
Some people just can't raise kids well.
It used to be at twenty-one
Then at eighteen the curtain come
But now at fourteen, look out son
That fork in your arse means you're done
My dad's a builder,
His friend's a plumber,
They're both getting cancer
And you can get fucked.
He works like a nigger
For a moderate figure -
We're not underprivilidged,
But you can get fucked.
Chorus
If you're creative, get stuffed
Their work involves toil;
They dig in the soil
And sweat on their foreheads:
You can get fucked.
My dad's better than your dad;
I'm better than you;
Your dad does something in advertising
And you'll be a gigolo too.
If you're an adman, artist, poet or actor;
Student, tutor , writer, chiropractor;
If you design clothing
Or make your living from posing;
If you paint pictures
Or run a boutique for bitches;
If you deal in antiques
Or anything chic;
If your career involves feeling
Instead of hauling and kneeling,
There's the end of the matter -
You can get stuffed.
Turn off the radio.
I've taken a drastic step:
From now on
I'm into Led Zep.
Chorus
"Crash through or crash" -
Gough Whitlam said that.
They don't do interviews
And they own a jet:
From now on
I'm into Led Zep.
Jimmy Page - best axeman?
You wanna bet?
From now on
I'm into Led Zep.
It's seventies rock,
The worst you can get:
From now on
I'm into Led Zep.
May all our young Aussie swimmers
Be resigned to failure;
May all out T.V. stations
Be like other nations' -
"Give up! Give up! Give up! for Australia."
May Timorese fishermen
Evade the Aussie sailor;
May we do as history teaches -
Die on Middle Eastern beaches -
"Give up! Give up! Give up! for Australia."
May this nation's flag
Carry another's regalia;
May our nation state
Be always second rate -
"Give up! Give up! Give up! for Australia".
We produce a Norman May
Not a Norman Mailer;
May this land's vast distance
Always treat us with indifference -
"Give up! Give up! Give up! for Australia".
My wife and kids left me,
My job is on the line,
My life is in the toilet but,
But I still feel just fine.
I've tried over working,
Staying up at night,
I've eaten all the wrong foods but,
But I still can't get it right.
chorus:
Gimme gimme nervous breakdown.
I wanna lose my marbles,
Go completely spare,
I wanna froth up at the mouth
And fall off of my chair.
Michelangelo had one, Botticelli had one,
Ludivico Di Medici had one, Dante had one,
Titian had one, Raphael had one,
I want to one too.
Was it God or the devil?
Tell me, somebody.
Who put Sophie Lee
In Sophie Lee's body?
Is it better or worse? -
I'll pay you some money -
Is it better or worse
When she tries to be funny?
Is it or isn't it
My T.V. set squeaking?
It surely can't be
English she's speaking.
Who is who, damn it -
Oh, tell me soon -
Who is the human
And who the cartoon?
It couldn't be, could it?
Impossible, I feel -
I heard Sophie Lee
Is actually real.
I'm courageous, I'm heroic, I'm fit and I'm strong;
I've been to Young and Jackson's with lipstick on;
I'm worn my Kunta Kinti T-shirt to a Klu Klux meet -
But I've never turned right at Swanston Street.
I've mixed heroin, cocaine and angel dust;
I've played on Rodney Grinter ( and been concussed );
My is mind is dirty, but my whiskey's neat -
But I've never turned right at Swanston Street.
I can be subjected to hours of extreme pain;
I can watch a full ten minutes of Don Lane;
There's only one time I'll admit defeat -
I've never turned right at Swanston Street.
Drivin' along, something pollutin' the air - well, uh,
Don't worry baby, it must be the area.
Chorus:
C'mon, baby, let me drive you home;
I'm as sensitive as Wilfred Owen.
Why ask me where it come from, who's an encyclopedia?
Don't worry baby, it must be the area.
It's coming from the air vents - look, would I lie to ya?
Don't worry baby, it must be the area.
Stay in the car, girl, needn't go back to Pa;
Don't worry baby, it must be the area.
You can go and buy a shottie
Hold up the local TAB
Or steal a few VCRs
Or try a smash and grab
You won't be getting half the loot
Your lawyer Q.C. will
You may as well obey the law
I sentence you to Rowville
I sentence you
to fourteen years in Rowville
Why shoot a man in Reno
Just to watch him die?
Go down to the casino
To see a deadened eye
It sure won't be Lloyd Williams
Who hears the judge's will
"citizen, for obedience
I sentence you to Rowville."
For crime against the person
The tabloid press will shout
The animal be locked away
And never let him out
For crime against property
You have to pay the bill
For crime against the spirit
I sentence you to Rowville
You're only one fad away from being retro
You're only one drug away from liking techno
You're only one glasses of pair from dyslexia
You're only one Cleo mag from anorexia
You're only five yards from a fuckwit
You're only one download from this song's copyright
You're only one Tim Tam away from cellulite
You're only one phone call from captaining the Aussie side
You're only one lifestyle show from suicide
You're only one station from John Laws' shit
You're only one labotomy from believing it.
You're only one tabloid press from a lynch mob
You're only one acting role from a real job
You're only one strip of flesh from your bones
You're only one species away from Alan Jones.
You're only one small speck in space
You're only one life, soon erased
Be there none left on Eath but you
One thing will still remain true:
I.
My old man used to take me to the footy;
Now, it's me takes him.
Been barracking for the Saintas seasons on end -
Seasons cold and grim -
Every season we'd pretend that we were
The great pretenders,
And watch, in the rain, us getting done again
By the real contenders.
Hear the cry ring to the Moorabbin sky,
Nothing can stop it:
Winmar! Winmar to Lockett!
II.
Those Collingwood bastards did us by a point
The day mother died.
When they told dad he shook his head and said,
"Makes you wanna cry."
Winmar, you're a football genius, and, oh,
Let me tell you son,
Remember my old man 'cos he wasn't
Referring to mum.
You've got my heart when you've got the leather,
God's sake, don't drop it:
Winmar! Winmar to Lockett!
III.
My dad will be gone in ten seasons' time,
And, you know, they can
Build rockets that think, have prime time T.V.,
Napalm Vietnam -
So just for my dad they could give us the flag -
Who says they oughtn't?
It isn't a matter of life or death -
It's more important.
Oh, here comes Nicky! Tony's broken free!
Winmar to Lockett!
Winmar! Winmar to Lockett!
Ezra Pound was a great young man,
Though possibly a bit of a dandy;
And when it comes to writing things down,
You know, he was pretty handy.
But remember this, you pretentious shits
With your books upon your shelf:
When he came, his dick went limp
Like everybody else.
You know, me and my baby, no couple like us;
We got our Sartre, we got our Camus.
I love her 'cos I hate the stinking bitch -
She's like a train - or a horse - I forget which.
Chorus:
Who cleans the home?
John Paul Sartre?
Simone de Boviour?
I'm the outsider, not for me conventional law
(Though here's a tip - the book's a bore ).
I'll take responsibility for my inner most wishes,
But I'll be buggered if I'll do the dishes.
Now my baby's left me, she's walked out the door,
She said she won't touch my six inch gold blade anymore.
I'm aware that One can never really know Other -
But fuck existentialism, I'm going back to mother.
Come home tired, what a day I've had;
News ain't good from Stalingrad -
I been busy protecting the German race,
So come on baby, defecate on my face.
Chorus:
C'mon baby, send it on down;
Bend over Braunn and give me your brown.
There's trouble brewing in the Warsaw Pact,
So hurry up Eva and move your digestive tract.
Get to the bunker, looks like a sty;
Turn on the T.V. and it's all one Big Lie -
Here Eva, have these prunes to chew:
We have ways of making you poo.
Here come the Russians! It's near the end!
Proud to say that my girl never used an "S-bend".
What's that Eva? Your bowel's on strike?
Then it's all over for my Third Reich.
Come home tired, what a day I've had;
News ain't good from Stalingrad -
I been busy protecting the German race,
So come on baby, defecate on my face.
Chorus:
C'mon baby, send it on down;
Bend over Braunn and give me your brown.
There's trouble brewing in the Warsaw Pact,
So hurry up Eva and move your digestive tract.
Get to the bunker, looks like a sty;
Turn on the T.V. and it's all one Big Lie -
Here Eva, have these prunes to chew:
We have ways of making you poo.
Here come the Russians! It's near the end!
Proud to say that my girl never used an "S-bend".
What's that Eva? Your bowel's on strike?
Then it's all over for my Third Reich.
Eckermann does, Eckermann doesn't,
Eckermann switched on the current.
Eckermann will, Eckermann won't,
Eckermann dug the moat.
Eckermann is, Eckermann isn't,
Eckermann is quite pleasant.
Eckermann laughs, Eckermann cries,
Eckermann has lots of ties.
Eckermann lives, Eckermann dies,
Eckermann loves those apple pies
You don't need Chardonnay
No sushi, no pate
Just get your mates around
Some bastard on the ground
Boot Party
Accepted etiquette
Is spilling the claret
We damn near could use bibs
Tonight we're having ribs
Just keep the lighting low
A lonely street lamp's glow
Into it's frightened ray
Will walk tonight's entree
Tomorrow's Monday, mate
We're back to lives we hate
We take revenge tonight
You could be next invite
Club culture unites the globe
All nations pulsin' to the same strobe
Down in Melbourne we think togetherness
Means connecting in a literal sense
If you want house you go to Chicago
Brussels for hardcore, Detroit for techno
If you happen on King Street by mischance
You're in the home of cumpulsory health insurance
Dumb 'n' base - It's the new style goin' round this place
Dumb 'n' base - Come and get a remix of your face
The boys who cruise this neighborhood
Think clubbing is done with a length of wood
Frankie Knuckles ain't worth a damn
Here in fuckknuckle buck's night mini-bus land
Dance to the rhythm of your best friend
As the bouncers cut a breakbeat on his head
It ain't hardcore acid or trance
Your best friend's doing St. Vitus Dance
Do the night club crawl and you can see
How to get your body piercing done for free
Who needs raves or dropping 'E'
When you got a bunch o'Daves dropping in the knee
We're all one nation under a groove
Vilification is the new dope move
So come on everybody - let's get dancin'
Tonight's guest DJ - Pauline Hansen!
Dumb 'n' base - We failed the dope test for the human race
Dumb 'n' base - Where a girl's best friend is a can of MACE
Nature is the first cause and the fundamental creative principle in all active living, but the function of the system is to provide the degree and the right moment for each, and to lay down the clearest rules for use and practice.
Furthermore, sublime impulses are expressed to greater degrees when they are left to themselves without the ballast and stability of knowledge; they need the curb as often as the spur.
Come home tired, what a day I've had;
News ain't good from Stalingrad -
I been busy protecting the German race,
So come on baby, defecate on my face.
Chorus:
C'mon baby, send it on down;
Bend over Braunn and give me your brown.
There's trouble brewing in the Warsaw Pact,
So hurry up Eva and move your digestive tract.
Get to the bunker, looks like a sty;
Turn on the T.V. and it's all one Big Lie -
Here Eva, have these prunes to chew:
We have ways of making you poo.
Here come the Russians! It's near the end!
Proud to say that my girl never used an "S-bend".
What's that Eva? Your bowel's on strike?
Then it's all over for my Third Reich.
Come back DJ
What's wrong with this track?
This ain't no cutting-edge groove
It's the needle skipping back
Everybody's got disrhythmia
This breakbeat's so confusing
They'll think the latest batch of E
Been cut with jazz-fusion
Come back DJ
It's getting ugly in here
There's no more bottled water
They're starting on the beer
Everybody's coming down
It'll be a free-for-all
Any more freestylin'
They'll be wanting Aussie Crawl
Come back DJ
Your record is scratched
Come back DJ
They'll suss why you came
Double-deckin' in the cubicle
With DJ Underage
When they find out what you are
How bad's it gonna get?
You never hung with Nik Fish
All your friends were Mullets
What you know 'bout Gabba
You learned watching the Test
You flew in from Ibiza?
Nah - The bus from Airport West
Come back DJ
I'll admit I'm scared
Hurry put your cans back on
They've started lobbing theirs
There's something way too feral
'bout this Tribal Gathering
I think De Rigueurmortis
Has started setting in
They've stormed the stage
They're at your booth
But you're still out the back
With some private schoolgirl
Doin blow with Slim Boy's Fat
Choose bad smack, put Omo in your coke,
Snort it up the hoota, gulp it down the throat;
Choose bad smack, don't choose life:
Leaves you high, and your clothes whiter than white.
I love the adrenaline rush speed and danger draw
Like blowin' into my milkshake 'stead of suckin' up the straw.
One day I'm gonna go right over the top
And keep on blowin' after my mum tells me to stop.
Choose bad smack, put Omo in your coke,
Cold power in your hoota, Drive in your dope;
Choose bad smack, don't choose life:
Leaves you high, and your clothes whiter than white.
The ball's in the net, the run's on the board;
Be like your sporting heroes, make sure you've scored.
The people who make it
How do they live?
The producer's a jackal
The director's a spiv
At P.R. they're liars
The sound guy is a slime
The hostess is a bimbo
With a petulant whine
Real TV makes us all arseholes
The people who're on it
What could they have heard?
One day you are unknown
The next you're a turd
You can't return fame
Get your money back
Imagine going on TV
To find what you lack.
The people who watch it
Are arseholes and creeps
Watching other arseholes
The cycle's complete
You think reality's crap?
I disagree
Crap isn't crap
Until it's on TV
On March the seventeenth, you've got to wear green;
On June the tenth, you've got to like the Queen;
At a buck's night, you've got to be one of the blokes;
On April the first, you've got to play practical jokes.
Chorus:
You think I'm a shining wit, but I'm really a whining shit.
On February the fourteenth, you must have a secret lover;
On December the twenty-fifth, you must be nice to each other;
On New Year's Eve, you just have to rage;
And on April the first, you musn't act your age.
On September the first, you have to like your father;
On May the twelfth, you have to like your mother;
The last Tuesday in November, I go to the Cup;
Last Saturday in September, I got to throw up.
At the moment of conception, got to follow the norm;
Be just like every one else on the day that you were born.
You live your life by the calender on your fridge,
Die the day you pay off your mortgage.
Christina Aguilera:
Some dead-eyed child bride
Has learnt to dance
BFW
Sisqo: One pack of vicious blacks
hates another.
BFW
Moby: A geography teacher
Bought a blues record.
BFW
Radiohead: Redefining the very idiom
That is modern music.
BFW
Psy-trance. Big Beat. Prog House.
Old Skool. Hard house.
Nu-skool breaks:
BFW
London: The 500 most snooty people
Think something's important.
BFW
Acting in a movie: Walk to the mark. Say the line.
Do it again.
BFW
Video clips: The revolving moose-head shot
Cost quater of a mil.
BFW
Pay T.V: Gilligan's Island. Rugby.
Gilligan's Island again.
BFW
The Internet: More crap at your fingertips
Than on them.
BFW
Big Fucking Whoopee.
Georgio Armani: Makes dresses.
Makes more dresses.
BFW
The Queen Mother: Fucked the right guy.
Lots of money. Drunkard.
BFW
Vegans: Deeply committed people.
Better than you and me.
BFW
Stock market: Lots of guys with rat-cunning,
Ripping off each other.
BFW
BMW: You hop in this car,
Then drive it.
BFW
Don't you wish a comet
Would forget Jupiter,
And try for the jackpot
And hit us instead?
We would all be cactus,
But there is a bright spot:
At least we'd die knowing
Doug Mulray was dead.
Poor old Tony Modra,
He's an alchohlic
(At least that's the rumour -
Here's another one:
I also heard that prick
Alan Bond got pack raped;
If humans were destroyed,
Thank God that's been done.)
Back to Tony Modra -
He'd be off the bottle
Just about forever
If we're blown to bits;
We'd never have to hear
Workcare advertising:
We could sing: "It's working"
As the fucker hits.
Celestial bodies,
Time to do your duty:
Knock this stinking planet
For a stinking six.
You will hear me sreaming,
"Yeah, you fucking beauty:
Humans are all arseholes,
Except for the pricks."
You stroke them with your knitting needles
You squash them with tender loving care
You raise them to your inhibitions
And drown them in gin.
But don't turn your back now
Keep your wide eyes peeled
Because when you least expect it
Babies bite back.
What once was an elephant
Is now a set of killing teeth.
Some people hate the Muslims
Some people hate the gips;
Some people have no problem
Picking on the nips -
How would you like to know about
The cocks your mother sucked?
It's one great long brutal shout:
"You and your race, get fucked".
Understanding's fine, I grant ya,
But come on, let's be frank -
Got no time for other cultures
In the line at the autobank.
Inside us all there is a lout
When civilisation's crushed -
Time has come to let him out:
"You and your race, get fucked".
The Irish hate the Irish;
It's Arab versus Jew;
You're cactus if you're Kurdish,
And by Christ I'm sick of you.
There's bullets to be sprayed about,
There's grenades to be chucked;
There's two of us left, so watch out:
"You and your race, get fucked".
There's nothing more to race relations
Than a bit of the old push and shove;
No need at all for the United Nations
When we've got death behind the pub.
Black, white, yellow - we agree about
Why our hands are clutched -
We want to punch each other out:
"You and your race, get fucked".
Don't call me nigger, whitey.
Don't call me wing-nut, gippo.
Don't call me faggot, yobbo.
Don't call me rapist, leso.
Call me Harold, call me Earnest -
Just don't call me late for breakfast.
Got my money in my pocket;
Got my car keys in my hand;
Got my copy of Das Kapital;
Gonna go down the library.
Got my amps up on full;
Got my guitar on my hips;
Got my kettle on the boil;
Gonna make a nice hot cuppa.
Got my band, we're really hot;
Got my girl and my car;
Got to get some wood varnish;
Gonna sand down my dining room furniture.
Got my needle and my syringe;
Got my freedom from the world;
Got to kill my mum and dad;
Then I want to get into real estate.
Music's my ticket to freedom;
Rock's my passport outa here;
But I prefer to wear shirt and collar
And get fat drinking beer.
All ordinaries index it screams out in the night
All ordinaries index it hunts me to my bed
All ordinaries index it fills my room with loathing
All ordinaries index it never leaves my side
All ordinaries index
All ordinaries index
All ordinaries index Take me from my aching
All ordinaries index Rid me of my sentence
All ordinaries index Send me back to caring
All ordinaries index Give me rest and shelter
I know his dad's abusive
And his mum prefers the daughter;
I know he's got an attention
Deficiency disorder;
He is culturally excluded
And genetically inbred:
But the reason he's a homeboy
Is because he's a dickhead.
We all support empowerment
And positive discrimination
When your class, your race, your age, your face
Determine your social station;
A baseball cap and a love of rap
Might need sympathy - yet, still,
Possibly a homeboy could be
A dickhead pure and simple.
"Know your enemy well enough
And you will pity them instead" -
In The Brothers Karamazov
That's what Dostoyevsky said;
And pity soon will turn to love
Is what Jesus Christ once knew:
They both changed their minds the day when
They met a homeboy crew.
Come live with me and be my love
And we will all the pleasures prove:
Buy a house! Build an extension!
A life of weary exhaustion
To fill our days - but wait! There's more!
I'll throw in a cavernous maw
Of carping kids and soiled rooms:
Our dishonest selves, self consume.
Drowning swimmers soon discover
Pairs together drown each other -
One may swim, but with two they can't:
Both are joined 'till death they part.
Come marry me, let it be soon:
Married women, oh! how they bloom!
Come live with me and be my love
And we will all the pleasures provee.
Why is Mick so arrogantly dismissive
Of all those girls who want to be his missus?
And why are so many songs about
Girls on whom he has walked out?
Why is his band called The Rolling Stones,
Which implies a lack of an emotional home?
Way, way back, even before 1964,
What was it that made Mick so sore?
What was it that someone said
In those formative days before Out of Our Heads?
Tell me, tell me, what was the girls name
That took Mick by the hand and patiently explained
Without vanity or arrogance or pouting or hating
That she will always prefer masturbating?
The fucking kids are whinging
They can't get a job;
The photocopy repair man
Is a smarmy smartarse knob;
I've been running this office
For so long I can't recall -
I've gone and pissed thirty years
Up against a wall.
"Good morning Mr Jenkins,"
The office girls all say;
"Gentlemen," I tell the board,
"What's the agenda for today?"
I play the part so desperately
Because the truth so appals:
I've gone and pissed thirty years
Up against a wall.
The fingers that knot my tie
Are fat with some success;
But they tremble - still so slightly,
So far only I notice:
In the far off wilderness
A lone hyena calls:
I've gone and pissed thirty years
Up against a wall.
Off I go to the men's room
For the seventh time today:
My bladder no longer hears me,
No matter what I say.
I count the tiles in front of me,
And wait as the trickle falls:
I've gone and pissed thirty years
Up against a wall.
A cold, hard September day -
Dogs barking across the lake -
Rocky Raccoon was heard to say,
"That other Rocky, he's a fake."
In the town the patrons paused,
Swiftly emptied their lagers
And waited for what's in store.
Here is Rocky's embittered saga:
"Paul wrote the lyrics first, then the chords;
Royalties had been settled;
It was in all the stores;
Fame, it seemed, had all but nestled
In my lap. I even met John,
Though only once, and briefly.
Still - there I was, in a song
All about me - well, chiefly.
I came back home, not two miles from here,
Told my folks; even the mayor
Of the town bought my beer.
Well, you remember - what a day - ah -
What a day, what excitement
When we learnt that Rocky Raccoon
Was to be on the Double White Album - it meant
That this town fell into a swoon
Of self-congratulation. But then -
You know! Do I have to go on?
Days after the release, days when
We all were just beginning to know the wrong
Done us, it was in those days
That I knew what hatred meant.
Yes - a false Rocky Raccoon, I says,
An imposter Rocky, diabolical, hell-sent,
Had pinched my spot, and with it fame
And glory. And for evermore on the Double White
The imposter Raccoon, with my name,
Was to reap the rewards, mine by right."
The barmaid flicked the tap, out flowed the larger.
Back at the ranch, Poncho,
Disguised as a door, had his knob shot off.
Rocky was never to be seen again round those parts.
And the townsfolk? Well - never forget,
Always be the one to hand out the Kool-Aid.
I've been crucified by all the scribes -
You can't see my back for all the knives;
The commentators have done all they could:
And fair enough - I'm just no good.
I try my best, there's no excuse;
You come to realise that it's just no use.
It's about time everyone understood
The simple fact - I'm just no good.
This latest effort is pretty drab;
Try Harem Scarum, they're always fab.
Turn off the radio, I know I would:
Let's just face it - I'm just no good.
It's about time a rock star spoke,
Admitted that his talent was a joke -
I'll be the first in the neighbourhood
To say without a doubt I'm just no good.
Possibly we could get Sting
Admitting to his pissant thing -
When Dunsinane gets to Birnham Wood,
That's when he'll admit he's no good.
Then Bono could take a stand,
But this time against his band -
Morality is his daily food,
Why don't he preach, "I'm no good?"
Just before we run out of time,
That last verse contained an eye rhyme;
Now I feel that I should
Point out that it wasn't good.
The singer has mucked up this song;
The guitarist has got it wrong;
The bassist, in all likelihood
Is like the drummer - just no good.
Confronting society can begin to tire:
Just come on down to TISM boat hire -
When you wanna do a line no one will reproach ya
When you dangle it from the side of a little six stroker.
Chorus:
Vote for Boat
Rock 'n' roll stars, they tend to suicide,
But that don't seem so romantic when you're worried 'bout the tide -
Bon Scott, Jimi Hendrix, they'd be alive this week
If they just went fishing from Mordialloc Creek.
Don't wanna be the bad boys of rock;
Don't want my morality to cause anyone shock;
I just want a leitmotif that can float:
Don't want Guns 'n' Roses, I just wanna boat.
In the electorate of rock, be a smart thinker
Vote For Boat
Give it all up for hook, line and sinker
Vote For Boat
Vote with your feet; rock's had its day
Vote For Boat
Your new electorate is out on the bay
Vote For Boat
Wanna break out of rock's gerrymander?
Vote For Boat
Go out trawling for salamander
Vote For Boat
If you're axe king or disco, metal or rapper
Vote For Boat
Give it all up, and go catch some snapper
There's nothing on T.V. but a thing
Called Scarecrow and Mrs. King.
You sit and watch it while your wife
Becomes the play thing of another man's life:
It don't bother me, I'm a toady -
I'm John Bonham's coke roadie.
Your life is totally out of step,
But so what? - I'm with the Zep;
I don't wash dishes or pay the rent -
I just depend on John getting bent:
It don't bother me, I'm a toady -
I'm John Bonham's coke roadie.
It's amazing what goes through your brain
As I frantically sweep the little grains:
Think of fidelity! Think of the fools!
Marriage destroys you - stick to drum stools.
It don't bother me, I'm a toady -
I'm John Bonham's coke roadie.
We tour through cities; I see life -
And someone is next to your wife;
The only thing that can't be canned
Is scrambling under the high hat stand:
It don't bother me, I'm a toady -
I'm John Bonham's coke roadie.
The back upon which Jezza jumped and rode into the ground;
The humiliated vertebrae that mighty mark crushed down;
That pathetic platform from which Jesualenko leapt into the sky;
That ladder to immortality has finally laid down to die.
Yes, Graeme "Jerker" Jenkin, the man who stood his ground
And took the pain that gave other's fame is six foot underground;
Giant jolly "Jerker" Jenkin, Jesaulenko's dupe -
All he got out of that magic mark was a tenancy to stoop.
Did he hear the thundering footsteps on that fateful day?
As he looked up at that Sherrin, did he know he'd have no say
As Jezza jumped to fame and glory with one almighty leap,
And he was left to be forgotten in a crumpled heap?
And so all you men of small ability and mediocre skill,
All those of you who, in the race of life, are left standing still;
Those who must always know others are unquestionably better -
The second class, the also ran, the unsuccessful go getter;
The minor leaguers, the average markers, the consistent second raters;
The stay at homers, the timid loners, the habitual masturbators;
The ugly girls, the amputees, the screaming Mongoloids;
The senile old, the deformed young, the bladders that unwillingly void;
The cancer ridden, the A.I.D.S. victim, the plastic surgery disaster;
The fake bowel, the anguished howl as the psychopath shafts ya;
The violated; the child rapist; the jerk off artist;
The disaster fated, the intensely hated, the involuntary fartist;
All of you huge race of men with mind or body dismembered
Never forget the name of the man who will never be remembered;
And beware!, all who have hopes of happiness you pathetically nurture,
Lest you forget the back upon which Jezza jumped, the giant Graeme "Jerker"
Somalia has got the hunger
Yugoslavia's battle will always rage
Germany's got a guilty conscience
And Magic Johnson, he's got AIDS.
But in the global battle for misery
You know, we all win it
'Cause we're all Victorians
And we've got Jeffrey Kennett.
Stalin, he fucked communism
Germany and Hitler fucked the Yids
We all fuck the ozone layer
Woody Allen, he fucks the kids.
Some people they fuck animals
But if you're kinky, why wait?
Come on down to Victoria
See one man fuck a state.
Queensland used to be the national joke
And Adelaide was full of S and M botty-spankers
Perth was full of crooked businessmen
And Sydney, still full of wankers
Tasmanians, I've never met met any.
But the whole nation knows that
We all voted in Jeffrey Kennett
And that makes every Victorian a prat.
The West and South Australians were right
They've know for years that Vics were pricks
And now the whole nation can agree
kick a Vic, kick a Vic, Kick me,
I'm one, come on, kick each other
But don't forget that when we're kicking each other to death
There's one man who deserves it more than the rest -
and his first name is Jeff.
So my hair is sorta thinning and a colour's been applied;
And, yeah, O.K, about the paunch - I guess I sorta lied;
But you won't hear me whining like those fucking teeny stars
When I'm standing at the mirror and I'm playing air guitar.
Rock and roll is music for the angry and depraved -
So you can't really rock and roll till you're middle aged.
Moaning, between head jobs, rock stars say they're so depressed -
They should try out a real job and a boss that's not impressed;
If it's so fucking hard being young, beautiful and rich
Come on down the office, cockhead, I'd be glad for us to switch:
The Prodigy despise normal men; Keith studded his own tongue;
But the pain of that don't compare to actually being one.
Oooh, it must be so fucking hard for all the Trainspotting crew
To have to live an alienated life in the proletariat milieu,
While all us normal middle class wanker types are trying
Not to have such a great time working 40 years then dieing;
Every fucking adolescent moans about how they're so deprived -
What do you fucking think it's like turning forty five?
"Oh no!" I say to the wife, "another album's due;
Another tour of the world - oh, what am I going to do?
Oh, it's such a hassle - the fans just won't leave me alone -
Remember those great old days with three kids and a loan?
Can't go to Safeways, got a photo shoot, and I'm stoned.
By the way, nearly forgot - Madonna phoned."
Hey, who doesn't wanna rock all day and party every night?
Every adult's a boring turd - that's exactly fucking right.
You'll never join the normal world, says your anguished teenage voice:
Well I don't ever remember someone giving me the choice.
So you can sing about rebellion and experiment with drug bingeing
But you won't get really angry till your teenage kids start whingeing.
![TISM / ROOT interview [2008]](http://web.archive.org./web/20140102075436im_/http://i.ytimg.com/vi/9EgdQYu7dy4/0.jpg "TISM / ROOT interview [2008]")
