Bi-Polar Sound Guy

War games in record store in-store purchase
Crabby-ass non-musical musicians selling and for sale:
nice t-shirt included with stick-on art-rock manifesto,
Colored hair, and easy guitar chords for beginners
who are the living end and are
too fucking stupid to understand Mel Bay
or soap.
It's the surfactant for you.
Plug it in and
Spread your legs, fatso.
Does the carpet match the curtains?
You might have a disease.
Predictably, it's curable.
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Stay home and practice your scales
and please don't tour.
If you do, I hope I miss it if you don't pay good.
All the turd-burgling gurgling
Ukuleles that make me pukelele even more than this.
Hey there,
cutesy-girl sad-eyed voice and big weepy something-or-other.
My cat has big weepy eyes.
It's an allergy that gets worse
when he licks his ass.
I'm allergic to that tormented self-sap,
sad-sack Sally Ann Ladue.
Another song with heartache that makes my heart ache
and wrench and die.

Johnny Q. Fuckerly
suckerly my dickerly
PUnk rock conforming non-conundrum
video baby pointlessly useless
time of wasted drinking stories
bottled discord and angst routine
and decomposition by those who can't compose.
Ride that ass-pony to the end of time, please
and just stop it.  Kill it.
Glue factory.
Bet you can't tell a story without opening your painted mouth.
Oh great, another uniform that someone made you.
Wear.
Take your clothes off and do it again
in the dark,
this time with feeling.
If you move, you're fired.
Who says a dance band can't play art music?
Once it's art, it's not an art.
It's a show and it's a business.
Them's the rules.

My Dad said you were an asshole, Merle.
He was right, you drunken killer.
Tupelo blue-collar street-wise art-school dropout
buncha hyphenated bores.
Do that one about name-dropping your hero poets
or the one about drinking while living true
Red, white and blew
on the South Side by a factory
that built cheetohs for what-nots
while the workers smoked Pall Malls
and middle-class kids did cocaine with
their college-educated black friends
or Heroin.
Ooohhh.  Fucked up.  Oooohh.
Oh, that's what they all love.
Their friend, the local bad music reviewer
is gonna make a splash.
There's no humor in vapid, sad attempts.
Is that fuzz in the community pool?
Another pedal?  Plug that shit in.
You'd like to borrow a cord?  No problem.
You should borrow a chord.  No problem.

Tell me a story.
Save the staves.
I Don't want to go down to the basement
Unless there's a good drummer there.
The pipes leak and my stereo smells better.

And tonight I'm going to make you
The best you there is.
Open my mind.
I hope to make you magically delicious.
Because some people like to jack off in public
And some will pay to watch
Ugly pterodactyls do their thing with corn.