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The Game - Lost
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A game is structured playing, usually undertaken for enjoyment and sometimes used as an educational tool. Games are distinct from work, which is usually carried out for remuneration, and from art, which is more often an expression of aesthetic or ideological elements. However, the distinction is not clear-cut, and many games are also considered to be work (such as professional players of spectator sports/games) or art (such as jigsaw puzzles or games involving an artistic layout such as Mahjong, solitaire, or some video games).
Key components of games are goals, rules, challenge, and interaction. Games generally involve mental or physical stimulation, and often both. Many games help develop practical skills, serve as a form of exercise, or otherwise perform an educational, simulational, or psychological role.
Attested as early as 2600 BC, games are a universal part of human experience and present in all cultures. The Royal Game of Ur, Senet, and Mancala are some of the oldest known games.
Lost may refer to:
You barely touched the broccoli on your dinner plate
Well, alright just one bite and you can stay up late
Don't tease the baby; you'll make him cry
Because I'm the mother, that's why
chorus
Don't fight
I've got eyes in the back of my head.
These are things my mother's mother's
mother's mother said
I learned the language when I was very young
Lately I've been talking in
the mother tongue
Take off your muddy shoes Put the cat down
Here's a tissue; blow your noseP ut the cat down
What did you say? Where'd you learn that?
Come back here when I'm talking
Let go of that cat.
chorus
Behave at your Grandma's
Be good when I leave
Wipe your nose again-- no, not your sleeve
What's on your cheek? Let me get it
Don't have a fit
When our stretch marks look like the New Jersey Turnpike
mapped from navel to knees,
when the bottom's best feature is its interesting texture
(the sign of a fine cottage cheese),
when we search for the perfect bathing suit
that will cover our assets -and still look cute-
is this an impossible, hopeless pursuit?
Or are we just hard to please?
When will we finally find the designer we need
who will heed our demand?
Or a style at the shore (where less isn ot more)
to guard the parts that are best left untanned?
We need more protection than spandex rags;
something cut larger than luggage tags
tied with dental floss onto our saddle bags.
Don't hide your heads in the sand.
chorus:
We're talking to you, Fashion Avenue
We're not going to take any more
We're your mothers and mistresses, wives and sisters
united from shore to shore,
We are standing erect with our hands on our chests
four inches above the floor
And we're asking you, Fashion Avenue
for a little more support.
Swimsuits abound for the 98-pounder
whose legs alone measure five feet.
Here's a fine idea: try a line this year
for women who actually eat.
Not for half-naked nymphs found posing between
the pages--- of course!--- of a sports magazine,
but swimsuits for those of us more likely seen
between pages of Bon Appetit.
Our legs do not end where our armpits begin;
we want a realistic design,
a little more coverage, a little less skin
(some vertical stripes would be simply divine.)
Swimwear that won't self-destruct with a wave,
fashion to flatter the not-so-brave,
at least let us know where to stop when we shave.
Where do we draw the line?
chorus ...with our hands on our chests
two inches above the floor...
One day we may see our feminist family
rise from the underground,
despite Father Time and weird Uncle Gravity
constantly pulling us down.
This dysfunctional system will finally heal,
even our sisters with abs of steel
will all too suddenly know how we feel
ten years and two babies from now.
And when we connect and command your respect,
effectively paying our dues,
your very language shall be more correct.
Fat is a word you will no longer use.
Those negative terms only grate on our nerves.
Give adipose tissue the name it deserves.
Call it ... "personal strategic energy reserves"
and call stretch marks "organic tattoos"
chorus ...with our hands on our chests
I have this problem with my toe
And so I call my HMO
With a referral from
My primary care physician
They say my call matters to them
They’re like an old and trusted friend
Except friends don’t make you ask
Them for permission
The recording on the phone
Says Leave a message at the tone
Tell us your name, your age,
Your reason for submission
So I describe my nail ingrown,
Wax poetic on the phone
This is a metaphor
For the whole human condition
Tender
Sensitive
Painful
And now I’m listening to Brahms
(music to keep the caller calm),
Starting to see things from
The stockholder’s perspective
Should I stop thinking of myself
While they are managing my health?
While an accountant finds a treatment
That’s cost-effective
Hallelujah, I rejoice!
Is this a living human voice
talking to me
Like I’m a sweet, annoying female
I plead my best bureaucratese
I would be down upon my knees
‘Cept I’d be leaning
on this poor, throbbing toenail
Painful
Purple
Festering
As for my coverage, they say no
This is a pre-existing toe
My policy excludes
All things pre-existing
So if I want the claim approved
The toe will have to be removed
Which they believe may keep
The problem from persisting
This makes my doctor quite irate
Why should he have to amputate?
In his opinion this condition could
Be better handled
And as for me—I don’t nkow
I’d kinda like to keep the toe
I spent a fortune on these
Gorgeous Gucci sandals
Sexy
Size 6
Retail
I have been waiting patiently
Why aren’t you listening to me?
Can't you see that it's
Trying my endurance
I’m only asking to be heard
Hostage is such an ugly word
I would much prefer
Living Health Insurance
I want the orthopedic shoe
I want the Prozac® approved, too
Managed care is managing
To make me hostile
You've put me off far too long
I'll fix your ass; I'll write a song
About a nine-toed woman
Who goes postal
Crazy
It was a quiet cafe in Orleans, France
where we held our midnight rendezvous,
conspiring pour la resistance
It seemed like something Woody Allen would do,
talking politics, ethics, animal rights
one fateful night long ago.
The mood like the food we kept it light
till someone ordered escargot.
How sad for the snails, I cried woefully
shedding tears on my brioche.
To have given up their lives needlessly
for the bourgeoisie, how gauche
To my friends, I cried You and your dialectic.
Save the dolphins.
Save the ozone.
Save the whale...
There is a factory I know where they are farming escargot.
We must save our friend the snail.
We planned the mission with the utmost precision,
spied the factory from across the boulevard.
The alarm was taken care of by Pierre the electrician,
while I seduced- I mean, subdued- the guard.
Need I tell you, our timing was crucial
Wherever we go, there's id and there's ego
the conflicts we never outgrow.
Anxiety's built on repression and guilt
(ask any good Catholic you know).
There are feelings inside which are felt and denied
and in trying to hide them we find
that the ones we repress are the ones we express
(and they tell me it's all in my mind).
(Chorus)
And we sing ya, ya, ya, ya
So many things to avoid
Ya, ya, ya, ya
the gospel according to Freud
One day my kid came to me straight from his therapy,
(used to be strictly gestalt)
He said "I'm not complainin' but my toilet trainin'
was rough so you're really at fault"
Perhaps if I'd waited he'd not be fixated
I wish that I'd made it a game
So I owe an apology... thank you, psychology
My fault the kid is insane
(Chorus)
Our sons want to marry us. Freud says the Oedipus
complex is strong and it's real.
These boys cause a ruckus; they all want to -shall we say feel?-
what they ought not to feel
Between father and son there's a war to be won
over mama's affectionate glance
Says pop to his kid, "What's this crap about id?
Keep your impulses inside your pants"
We sailed away from Huntington Bay
and the waters were calm as could be-oh
On our new cabin cruiser, the first time we used her
'twas just the family and me-oh
And my husband stood proud in his new captain's hat
using words like ahoy there and- crap like that
So we took the kid and Cleo our cat
and set outt o conquer the sea-oh
Everyone loved it but Clee-oh
And it's yo ho over the seas
The salt and the spray and the cool ocean breeze
Pass me a bottle of Perrier please
This is the life for me
The tranquility three miles out to sea
suddenly came to an end-oh
when the kid started saying "No way am I staying
I'd rather be playing Nintendo-oh"
And the captain cried "Ho there, you little snot,
I paid fifty grand for this family yacht
You're going to enjoy yourself, like it or not
so you'd better learn how to pretend-oh"
(We all caught the man's innuendo-oh)
And it's yo ho over the seas
The salt and the spray and the cool ocean breeze
Pass me a bottle of Dramamine please
This is the life for me
My husband the captain was checking the charts
while the cruiser was burning up fu-el
And the kid threw the cat in, trolling for sharks
he called it a project for school-el
I reached down to pull the cat in by the tail
when I smelled what I held my complexion went pale
That's when I lost my lunch over the rail
The kid thought the whole thing was coo-el
Mama was not feeling too-well
And it's yo ho over the seas
The salt and the spray and the cool ocean breeze
Pass me a bottle of Valium please
Is this the life for me?
We ran out of fuel by mid-afternoon
and the clouds were moving in fast-er
And the captain did say, "There's no more Perrier"
which made it a total disast-er.
With hardly a warning it started to pour
and we drifted 'til we reached the New Jersey shore
(never thought I'd be glad to see Jersey before)
We started drifting in fast-er,
tried to steer the ship, but we crashed her
No more yo ho over the seas
The salt and the spray and the cool ocean breeze
Pass me a bottle of cyanide please
This is no life for me.
I'm back in my condo, the cruiser's a wreck
My husband is spending the insurance check
On something for dry land or I'll break his neck
'Cause this is the life for me
It was a sweltering July at the North Pole
With the mercury at a balmy forty-two
Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen,
Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen
Were shvitzin’ with nothin’ to do
(they were tired of reindeer games)
Into the lodge strolled Raymond
What a reindeer! Everybody’s pal.
He thought that he might try
To get on Santa’s better side
By raising the reindeer morale
(Rudolph had a red nose-- Raymond’s was brown.)
He said to Fred the elf
"You see that guitar on the shelf?
I can’t get for myself—would you?"
And everyone agreed
Yeah, music’s what we need
Hey Ray, can you play a song or two?
Please do.
CHORUS
Raymond, you’re a reindeer with talent
Someday you may be a star
The world’s gonna say
Have you hear about Ray?
That reindeer can play guitarNow, it’s true Raymond knew about music
His guitar licks were tastier than salt
Though he felt a little tense
When someone in the audience
Said "You better be good ‘cause Santa’s watching"
Oy gevalt!
But he picked up that guitar and started wailing
And he nailed a couple very fancy moves
All the elves and Santa Claus
Stood with open jaws
‘cause it’s hard to play guitar with hooves
There were praises from Ray’s reindeer family
As they looked upon their kin with new regard
And his cousin who saved Christmas
With that shiny red proboscis
Said "Raymond, I’ve got this agent—
Here’s his card."
CHORUS
Raymond, you’re a reindeer with talent
Someday you may be a star
The world’s gonna say
Have you heard about Ray?
That reindeer can play guitar
Jingle bells, jingle bells
Jingle all the way
Listen to that caribou
He’s doing Purple Haze
Old Raymond was content to play the small gigs
Making doe-s, his future rosy and bright
Then his agent got the mother-of-all gigs
Said "You’re playing the Tonight Show—tonight
He said Raymond you’ll be famous by the morning
I claim your name will be the latest rage
A star will be born
Another Stevie Ray Fawn
And with that he pushed Ray onto the stage
Some say it was a bad case of stage-fright
The stress of the big night – Who knows?
But it happened when they turned on the spotlight
Like a deer caught in the headlights --- he froze.
Raymond you’re a reindeer with talent
But that’ll only get you so far
If you want to hit the heights
Theny ou gotta handle light
And maybe someday
The world will say
In his hands sat a tiny Abyssinian
as he stood at his live-in lover's door
He said "I'm keeping it. Let's call it Gilligan."
and he handed her the cat and he said nothing more
And she thought, "Oh God, a cat. I hate cats,
and this one he's calling Gilligan, how disgustingly cute
I'd like to send him nad his little buddy Gilligan
on a three hour tour."
He said, "I'll take full responsibility.
I'll even feed it everyday."
"Cats" he said "are independent creatures."
But she wound up caring for the damn thing anyway.
But she will not clean the litter box
She won't go near it at all,
and she doesn't like animals that try to scratch her eyes out,
and she doesn't deal with fur balls.
And the litter box sits,
and the litter box sits,
and the little cat...sits in the litter box
One day, the whole thing grew too much for her,
it was a hot and humid August day
She approached the litter box with a great deal of trepidation
(and a can of Lysol)
Looked at it and said "no way"
But she will not clean the litter box
She won't go near it at all
and she doesn't like animals that try to scratch her eyes out,
and she doesn't deal with those pesky fur balls
And the litter box sits,
and the litter box sits,
and the little cat...shits
(Okay, I said it, are you happy now?)
One day she came home from the office,
to find a cold and empty flat
He took the TV, the furniture, the stereo they bought together,
the microwave and the cat
But he left her the litter box
and to this day it's still lying there
It serves as a monument to their relationship
It's an appropriate souvenir
And the litter box sits
and the litter box sits,
Roger Wingtip is my dentist
there’s no one can compare
when he talks about bicuspids
he makes you really care
I once chewed three packs of licorice
to spend more time in his chair
Roger Wingtip is my dentist
there’s no one can compare
Oh Roger
you cause me pain
an ache that cannot be diminished
with Novocain
Oh Roger
when we’re apart
it feels like root canal
of the heart
One day I got the chance to tell him
what I had to say
I said " I rink I ruv ru"
but his hands got in the way
He looked at me and said
"Yes, I think the weather’s fine today"
Only once I got the chance to tell him
I refused to get the phone today
even after 27 rings
it would have been a bad connection
I can tell these things
I have gift with my predictions
they come naturally
and I can tell what you are thinking
but listen to me:
It’s hell to be psychic
hell to have ESP
to know the news before 11
to see the future presently
I’ve ruined every surprise party
my family tries to throw
and when a friend comes to visit
I never say who is it
I already know
and I could never read a whodunit
knowing the one who done the crime
The lottery? I’ve won it
lost its thrill the fourteenth time
It’s hell to be psychic
hell to have ESP
You think that you might like it
but you should see what I can see
It’s hell to be psychic
hell to have ESP
I get desperate calls from Wall Street brokers
constantly
You want to know if you’ll be married
by the following June
want me to read your cup of tea leaves
I was only seven
when I learned how to read
I got the education
every child is guaranteed
We read around the classroom
Teacher hollered "Next!"
I was only comfortable
when reading Hebrew text
I’m dyslexic and I’m mad
D-A-M
Well I met a boy named Otto
I loved him for his name
‘cause backwards and forwards
it always looks the same
He took me to a musical
I gave him such a hug
I said "What a great production of
Annie Get Your Nug"
I’m dyslexic and I’m mad
D-A-M
Backwards forwards sideways
up and down and down and out
It’s all so topsy turvy
it makes me want to shout
"Is there anybody out there
who could lift this mental fog?"
I may not be religious
but I do believe in Dog
Driving down the highway
on a dark and stormy night
I hit the left hand signal
Of course I headed right
A cop gave me a ticket
and what was even worse
when I went to pull away from him
I threw it in reverse
Tish happens
D-A-M
Some folks think it’s a handicap
but I think that they’re wrong
‘Cause I get the backwards lyrics
in those heavy metal songs
Internet connections and pet psychology
the timer on the VCR
they all make sense to me
I’m dyslexic
Hot Damn!
M-A-D
I’m dyslexic
and I’m Mad
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
and never brought to mind
should auld acquaintance be forgot
hey everybody, it’s rapture time
I was staring at the clouds from a 747
when I saw that there were thousands
getting sucked up into heaven
and I knew that Armageddon time was nigh
when the Captain said,
"on your right there’s Mother Teresa floating by"
Oh, I could here the passengers behind me start to cheer
when he said, "looks like the whole non-smoking section’s disappeared.
But don’t you fear, even though I’m outta here
you’ve still got the navigator
He’ll stay with the rest of you fornicators and atheists,
insurance salesmen and bigamists,
and certain televangelists and such
and by the way, thanks for flying with us"
Chorus:
Well it’s one of those days
all of my friends are getting raptured
Taken away from their RV’s and their pick-up trucks
by a heavenly Electrolux on super suck
and I’m stuck here in sinners company
Jimmy Swaggart, my mother-in-law and me
Driving home from the airport
the highways were all clear
except for cars with NRA bumper stickers on the rear
I pulled into a burger joint
Gave my order to a sweet blonde who said,
"Would you like some fries with that?"
Zoop she was gone
I finally made it home
I couldn’t take it anymore
when I saw my friend the Jehovah’s Witness
who preaches at my door
He was rising higher and higher saying,
"What do you think about that?
Na na na na na...Thupt!
and I heard...splat!
Chorus:
Well it’s one of those days
all of my friends are getting raptured
Taken away from their RV’s and their pick-up trucks
by a heavenly Electrolux on super suck
and I’m stuck here in sinners company
Madonna, my mother-in-law and me
Now’s the time to fear the most
Armageddon’s getting close
When you hear the Holy Ghost
Who you gonna call, Ghostbusters?
I went to see a friend of mine,
the one who drives a Ford
with the little sign on the window
"Holy rolling with the Lord"
well, she hadn’t yet been raptured
and it made her real upset
she’d been counting on not paying her American Express
She sat poised like a debutante
waiting for a date
and when she finally did get raptured she cried
"Jesus you’re late"
Me, well I was staying
I said, "Hey what I do wrong?"
when a voice from up above said,
"You’re the schmuck who wrote this song"
Chorus:
Well it’s one of those days
all of my friends are getting raptured
Taken away from their RV’s and their pick-up trucks
by a heavenly Electrolux on super suck
and I’ mstuck here in sinners company
Rush Limbaugh, my mother-in-law and me
and you sitting there
you missed the rapture too
Phyllis was a physicist,
a fairly good ventriloquist,
a free-lance photographer
but don’t call her a feminist.
Some challenges she’d nail
on the very first try,
but she felt like a failure
for she was afraid to fly.
Our friend the ace in physics
found herself in a great fix:
had to book a flight from Philly
to her family out in Phoenix.
F-f-fear of flying made her
positively petrified
But she could brave math equations;
she could face her fear and fly.
Fortunately our feisty physicist
found a fancy, pricey therapist
Felix P. Fellini
Neo-Freudian psychologist
(the P stands for Phredrick)
He said Phyllis, first and foremost
we must identify
whether your father or your mother
made you so afraid to fly.
Our physicist got physical
confronting her fears
pounding on pillows
chastising empty chairs
After four thousand dollars
and forty thousand tears,
although she’s still afraid to fly,
at least now she can tell you why.
(Maybe she doesn’t fully understand... but she’s so close)
She met her friend the phrenologist
who was once a pharmacologist
until 1967
when he met up with a Marxist
but that’s another story
I may bore you by and by.
For now let’s stick to Phyllis
who is still afraid to fly.
The former pharmacologist
gave Phyllis a flask
of a pretty potent potion
He said Put on this medical mask.
It’s flammable fluid
What’s in it? Don’t ask.
But if you want to learn to fly,
this stuff is sure to get you high.
(I mean, metaphorically, of course.
By the way, you have some very interesting bumps on your head)
Phyllis of Philadelphia
finally felt free of phobia
Fifteen hours later she found herself
in Florida
waxing philosophic
with a fellow Gemini
How she got there, she’s forgotten.
Now she’s more afraid to fly.
Though phobic about airports
she phoned that very night
She said Look, I need to book
a f-f-f-f-f-f-flight.
Have you got one to Phoenix?
Tomorrow? Alright.
Sure, tomorrow’s fine for me to fly.
Oh my.
She boarded the plane
with her Walkman playing Streisand
Frozen to her seat, about to greet
the friendly skies and
when the wheels left the asphalt,
she could feel It’s do or die.
When she forced her eyes open
she was floating in the sky
And it was fabulous, fantastic,
it was even kind of fun
It felt freeing to be flying
so much closer to the sun.
And when the flight was over
she cried Look how far I’ve come.
Why flee from fear when I can fly?
There’s the greatest high .
You can see if you are able
there’s a moral to this fable.
You’re safe and sound on the ground
it’s comfy staying stable
Fighting diffidence can be difficult
we can all identify.
But if you face your fear and do it
Oh, the campaign trail is dreary
from Lake Tahoe to Lake Erie
and the days are long and weary
still I’m perky, warm, cheery
Clearly it’s no easy kind of life
Oh, it’s hard to be the candidate’s wife
I tell you
Woman's World did a piece on me
about how I raise my family
says oh how she slaves
while he's kissing the hands
shaking the babes
Time, Newsweek, People and Life
want to know about the candidate's wife
Someone in the press said the wives of politicians
are anti-feminist
Words like that they really make me
wish I had a comment that my husband would approve
Keep smiling
story of my life