![[Bonzo Dog]](../Bonzo.Gif)
Oluwa lonso afoju ti ole riran,
God protects those with dead eyes who cannot see,
Oluwa loriso aro ti ole nide jo,
God protects the crippled who cannot dance.
You concentrate on grabbin', biting, back-stabbing,
Palpitate on speedy spring-heeled shoes;
But when the only thing that counts is 'how much bounce to the ounce':
I say you're on the road to rock 'n' ruin.
Watching humanoids relax, empty swaying martial stacks,
Peacocks in cruel captivity;
Yes, insensate bodies reel cloaked in clockwork orange-peel:
Chunka, chunka ... Dead-Eyes.
Tomorrow when you're old and your mouth is paved with gold:
You begin to feel the cold inside.
The sickness in your blood soon will swell & over-flood,
And asphixiate all self-identity;
Yea, before your mind has healed, you'll wear your madness as a shield:
And your stance is fierce ... Dead-Eyes.
In conclusion let me scream, soon De Quinceys' laudanum dreams,
Dread processions in the twilight of your loins;
Tomorrows' children will be sold & unwittingly enrolled,
In the night-soil of your selfishness . . . Dead-Eyes.
The roadie's stoned again 'cos in his cubbyhole he keeps a little bottle of booze.
He has a little swig & when he's done the gig: (you ou ta see that ole man move).
Rockin' down the road at 3 point 44, the band were really rollin' tonight,
A few miles more, he makes the Blue Boar, now that roadie's feelin' nice.
You know he moves (like a rhythm machine),
And he grooves (on all the places he's seen).
He's never on a downer. just keeps truckin' round the world,
Don't treat him like a humper, he's a high-wire jumper, take my word.
Sometimes he does a bit of skivin'; but he's no 9 to 5-er & if he works for you:
There's no superannuation only years of petrol-stations,
Until he's thru'. Toodle-Oo.
Double-Egg, Fried-Bacon, make it twice, ducks. Paper plate, plastic cuppa splosh,
Sit down, bolt it down. say 'bye-bye' to who y'know (soon he gets a lotta spots).
Little ones with moist pink tops.
Here comes old Redeye he's fulla drink, mouthin' his mouth off,
To a load of kids. Saying nothin' personal: but he's up the creek:
While you're home sleepin', he's down at the Speak.
Easy now x4
Here comes old Hawkeye see his skilful squint, his ready intelligence,
You see it in print (each day). Flits into Amsterdam flies back to New York
In comfy 1st. class compartments yet he can still talk 'bout The People.
What kind of people? x2
'Bout the freaks down the Speak & the Stars on the Stage,
And the psychedelic seed of the Aquarian Age.
Chorus: Jesus, Krishna, Manitou--oo-ever you are,
God knows; but he's not saying.
Here comes young Crafty-Arty shining his sheen, bestudded with sequins,
Like a Pearly Queen. Slick as a lithograph reflected on stone,
Limp as raw sausage, but he gets it on.
Easy now x4
Here comes the Avant-Gardener pruning his beard, proposing philosophies,
Like you never heard: Split from your school/skull, sabotage seal-shooting hunts,
Chimerical, chemical oracle, you're a right stupid ...
Easy now x4
Chorus (that gets all the Mums & Dads going)
Sing up, no one will hear you!
Playing with me pink banana, jugglin' with me lovely bunch,
Secreted in me striped pyjamas, streuth: I'm comin' on tough.
Bad ting to tell he maņana, him just refuse to lie dong,
Gotta strap him to me leg to go shopping, trouser-snake he's so strong.
He loves to feel the freeness, the let-it-be-ness, fresh air circlin' round he,
Talkin' 'bout a certain penis. Freehold property.
Sometimes I blow a bit 'o' ganja, bash upon me banjolele,
It's no exactly mean & funky; but I don't pretend to be Bill Haley.
I don't care what Chairman Mao says, I'm only thinkin' of Prong,
Throbbin' in me semi-detached trousers in sympathy with me song.
I use a lotta sticky plaster to keep this old fellow controlled,
A bit 'o' wire & a wing-nut & pray that the damn ting will hold.
He loves to feel the freeness, the let-it-be-ness, fresh air circlin' round he,
To put it with a littler finesse, he's rather a whelk y'see. Oh Prong!
I beg your pardon, I gotta hard-on.
O Prong, you are strong & long. O Prong: Cold, blue-veined as marble.
Fierce thruster of the cleft. Flesh-ferret. Ho there, where is Prince
Nostril, he of the horny hands & erectile tissues?
I am here, O Randy One, muscular & well primed for the pussy.
AH, speak to me of savagery. . .
With a little red wine beneath my belt, I breathe breath that can melt the paint,
Off doors. A tongue to strip the polish off a parquet floor ... smooth.
Wake up in the morning with a concertina cough, my coke-encrusted lungs,
A-flutterin' like a pigeon-loft.
Brown-top-fingers fumble for the 1st. days fag: Stick it in my face & (cough),
What a drag.
Once my skin was soft as a hard-boiled egg, I held the whole wide globe,
In the palm of my leg. I was the clear-eyed pride of an upright man,
Now I'm a downright sot-of-a-son, & that's sad.
But I'm trying real hard, think I've served my time in the purple-stained arms,
Of the daughter of the vine. I'd like to settle down; but first I gotta settle up,
With the understanding man in the embalming-fluid shop.
'Cos I got swingin' jowls, a puke-box & an ulcer,
My ole arteries are hardening just fine ... Do it.
That sounded so authentic, like to thank you Bubs & Ric for your wholesome,
Country fiddlin' & I love the way you pick your noses while you're waiting:
Will there be another take? I hope not 'cos I'm knackered & I'm dying,
For a snakes.
Get home early mornin' & I throw myself in bed, asleep my mouth wide-open,
Me woman thinks I'm dead. She kicks me, I start gruntin', she knows that I'm alright,
Disgusting in the darkness, I've been boozin' thru' the night.
Yeah, I'm snorin' like a rhino, she gives a little dig, I roll onto my side,
And I start (effect) like a pig. Now she starts to rabbit, you should hear,
The way she talks "You see so many bottles, why don't you get yourself a cork?"
Gotta glass in my hand/ gotta bottle gonna guzzle/ gotta stop/ gotta go,
Maybe buy myself a muzzle.
Strange tongues comfort me, darkened rooms calm me down,
Make overtures to your insanity: good to have friends around.
Fear follows in the wake of sleepless days, foul yellow fright,
As thick as mayonaisse. Excretion in endless oceans, poetry,
In your motion. Music attendant: help me.
Citadels of concrete, already your cold iron hearts are rusted,
What recks how Snowdon-sculpted smooth you seem
From the soft touch & tap of childrens'games & laundry bundles,
Shoulder-hugged. You are the stuff of base foundation
For folks 'sake, it's not enough.
When the world was young moons made smily faces,
Stars: angel eyes, we know better
Mendels' sons & processed daughters cloned in uniforms of flesh,
Grow like pinks, from little cuttings, planted in a soil of self.