Debra Kadabra
Say she's a witch
Shit-ass Charlotte!
Ain't that a bitch?
Debra Kadabra—
Haw, that's rich!
(Ione, a rancho granny
Shook her wrinkled fanny . . . )
Shoes are too tight and pointed
Shoes are too tight and pointed
Shoes are too tight and pointedAnkles sorta puffin' out
Cause me to shout:
Oh Debra Algebra Ebneezra Kadabra!
Witch Goddess, Witch Goddess of Lankershim Boulevard!
Cover my entire body with Avon Cologna
And drive me to some relative's house in East L.A. (Wooden dog!)
(Just till my skin clears up)
Turn it to Channel 13
And make me watch the rubber tongue
When it comes out
Of From the puffed & flabulent Mexican rubber-goods mask
Next time they show The Brnokka
Make me buy The Flosser
Make me grow Braniac Fingers
(But with more hair)
Make me kiss your turquoise jewelry!
Emboss me!
Rub the hot front part of my head
With rented unguents!
Give me bas-relief!
Cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it
Cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it
Cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it
(Oh, hear thishell, yes!)
Cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it
(Oh, hear thishell, yes!)
Cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it
(Oh, hear thishell, yes!)
Cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it
(Oh, hear thisheel, yes!)
Learn the Pachuco Hop
And let me twirl ya . . .
(Learn the Pachuco . . . learn the Pachuco Hop an' lemme twirl you)
Oh Debra Fauntleroy-Magnesium Kadabra!
Take me with you . . .
Don't you want any of these?
I coulda swore her hair was made of rayon
She wore a Milton Bradley Crayon
But she was something I could lay on
Can't remember what became of me . . .
Carolina Hardcore Ecstasy
She put a Doobie Brothers tape on
(La la la la la-ahh la)
I had a Roger Daltrey cape on
(A Roger Daltrey cape on)
There was a bed I dumped her shape on
Can't remember what became of me . . .
Carolina Hardcore Ecstasy
Somewhat later on
I woke up and she was gone
There was dew out on the lawn
In the sunrise
Later she came back
With a rumpled paper sack
Which she told me would contain
A surprise
She stuck her hand right in it to the bottom
Said she knew I'd be surprised she got 'em
Take a Charleston pimp to spot 'em
Then she gave a pair of shoes to me . . .
Plastic leather, 14 triple D
I said: "I wonder what's the shoes for?"
She told me: "Don't you worry no more!"
And got right down there on the tile floor
Now Darling STOMP ALL OVER ME! . . .
Carolina Hardcore Ecstasy
Is this something new
Having people stomp on you?
Is it what I need to do
For your pleasure?
(Yo' pleasure . . . it's . . . uh . . . uh . . . all I need)
"What is this, a quiz?
Don't you worry what it is
It is merely just a moment
I can treasure . . . "
(What is . . . ?) (You know . . . )
By ten o'clock her arms and legs were rendered
She couldn't talk 'cause her mouth had been extendered
Looked to me as though she had been blendered
But was this abject misery?
No! No!
Carolina Hardcore Ecstasy!
Well . . .
But was this abject misery?
No! No!
Carolina Hardcore Ecstasy!
But was this abject misery?
No! No!
Carolina Hardcore Ecstasy!
It might seem strange to Herb and Dee—
Carolina Hardcore Ecstasy!
Sam with the showing scalp flat top,
Particular about the point it made.
(I got it . . . )
Why, when I was knee-high to a grasshopper,
This black juice came out on a hard shelled chin.
And that they called that 'tobacco juice'.
I used to fiddle with my back feet music for a black onyx.
My entire room absorbed every echo.
The music was . . . thud like.
The music was . . . thud like.
I usually played such things as rough-neck and thug.
Opaque melodies that would bug most people.
Music from the other side of the fence.
A black swan figurine lay on all color lily pads.
On a little conglomeration table of pressed black felt.
With same color shadows, and in seamed(?) knobbed knees, and what-nots.
The long hallway rolled out into oddball odd.
Beside the fly-pecked black doorway,
That looked closed on the tar-lattice street.
Up a wrought iron fire escape.
Rolled out a tiny wooden platform with dark, hard, dark rubber wheels.
Roll, skreek! Roll, skreek! Roll, skreek!
Sam with the showing scalp flat top,
Particular about the point it made.
Sam was a BASKET CASE!
A hardened dark ivory clip held . . . saleable everyday pencils.
I wish I had a pair 'o bongos!
Bongo Fury!
Bongo Fury!
Oowwwww! Bongo Fury!
(Boogie!)
Bongo Fury!
Bongo Fury . . .
Bongo Fury . . .
FZ: While we're at it, we have a sort of a cowboy song we'd like to do for ya. This is a song that deals with the rapidly approaching 200th birthday of the United States of America, ladies and gentlemen! This is a song that warns you in advance that next year everybody is gonna try and sell you things that maybe you shouldn't ought to buy, and not only that, they've been planning it for years. The name of this song is (pardon me), "Poofters Froth Wyoming Plans Ahead"
Poofter's Froth, Wyoming
March Eleven Sixty-Seven
Take a letter,
Ms. Abetter,
As An' our pigeons
Will be homing
To our jobbers in Dakota
And to Merwyn, Minnesota
This is merely just a note about
Performance to our quota
Well, we we've all come out
To show dem,
An' the Elks have helped us
Load 'em . . .
Little packets full of jackets
Little rackets, little rackets
Little Poofter-Cloth Appointments
Little Poofter's Froth Anointments
Little hoods, little goods
Little doo-dads from the woods
The entire stock is shipping
(Oh, our shod is hardly slipping!)
To the our markets of the world
Our wrinkled pennants are unfurled!
T-shirt racks, rubber snacks,
Poster rolls with matching tacks,
Yes, a special beer for sports,
And paper cups that hold two quarts!
Everything a nation needs
For making hoopla while it feeds
The trash compactors, the small reactors,
The Mowers, the blowers, the throwers & the glowers
This is Buy-Cent-Any-All Salute (HYULK!)
Two hundred years have gone ka-poot!
(Ah but we have been astute!)
Signed:
Anon. —Wyo. Galoot
I was sitting in a breakfast room in Allentown, Pennsylvania . . .
Six o'clock in the morning . . .
Got up too early . . .
It was a terrible mistake . . .
Sittin' there face-to-face with a
75ç¢ glass of orange juice
About as big as my finger
And a bowl of horribly fore-shortened corn flakes
And I said to myself
"This is the life . . . "
Well She's 200 years old
So mean she couldn't grow no lips
She's 200 years old
So mean she couldn't grow no lips
(Boy, she'd be in trouble if she tried to grow a mustache . . . )
She's 200 years old
Squatting down
And poppin' up
In front of the juke box
Like she had true religion
Boy
She's 200 years old
Squattin' down
Poppin' up
Front o' the juke box
Just like she'd had true religion
Boy
Boy, boy, Hoy! Hoy! It's 200 years
Half of this, none of that
Was 50 . . .
Oh squat, yeah, oh, now
She got religion now, boy
Oh, she's 200 years old
Oh, she told me
She just, she just can't grow no lips
Squat
Down
She told me that So mean she
Can't grow no lips
200 years old
Whaddya mean she can't grow no lips . . .
Squattin' down
Poppin' up 'n down at the juke box
OWW!
She got the true religion, boy
Boy
Out in Cucamonga
Many years ago
Near a Holy Roller Church
There was once a place
Where me and a couple of friends
Began practicing for the time
We might go
(YEAH AH-AH . . . YEAH AH-AH
WELL WELL
YEAH AH-AH . . . YEAH AH-AH
WELL WELL
YEAH AH-AH . . . YEAH AH-AH)
On TV
And as fate would have it
Later on we got a chance to play,
All we ever really knew
All we ever really knew
All we ever really knew
That it was crazy
(Nanook-a, no no)
(Yoo-hoo-hoo yoo-hoo yoo!)
To be doin' it any other way
That it was crazy
(Nanook-a, no no)
To be doin' it any other way
That it was crazy
(Nanook-a, no no)
To be doin' it any other way
Yes, it was CRAZY, CRAZY
Ooooh . . . WAH . . .
No more credit
From the liquor store
Suit is all dirty, boymy
Shoes is all wore
Tired and lonely, my
Heart is all sore
Advance romance
I can't stand it no more, you know
Told me she loved me
I believed what she said
Took me for a sucker, boy
All corn-fed
Next thing I knew
She had a bolt on the door
Advance romance
I can't use it no more, no, I can't use it
She took George's watch
Like they always do
(It was a Timex, too!)
(WAH-HOO-HOO
WAH-HAH-HOO-HOO)
(Him ashamed And-a shame on you)
No more money, boy
I shoulda knew
(You know I told ya)
(I know you told me)
(You didn't listen to me)
(But I couldn't listen to you!)
Told you 'bout the anchovys anchovies . . .
(You know what I'm talkin' about!)
George Duke!
The way she do me, boy
She might do you, too
The way she do me, boy
She might do you, too
The way she do me, boy
She might do you, too
(Look what she did to Denny right now!)
(Talk about it!)
(I'm chokin' the blues this morning!)
([...])
(Get all over . . . ! My Goodness!)
(Old time!)
(Chicken was never like this!)
All night long
All night long
All night long
All night long
All night long
All night long
All night long
All night long
All night long
All night long
All night long
All night long
All night long
All night long
Advance romance
(Think about it!)
People I am we . . . are . . .
(Yeah, one more time, one time!)
Through! But, wait a minute!
Potato-head Bobby
Was a friend of mine
Opened three of his eyes
In the food stamp line
Opened four of his eyes
In the food stamp line
Opened five of his eyes
In the food stamp line
Opened six of his eyes
In the food stamp line
Said Oh, you know they told me she might be a devil
No, you like them
Good God! Did you hear what I said?
Evil women
Oh, yeah!
You know, you know, you know
But she sure was fine
You like them
Oh, yeah!
Evil women
Growin' up, goin' home!
Advance romance
(What you gonna do?)
He wanna try it one time
He said he don't mind, no
Later that night
He drop on by
Told her all he wanna do
Was come step up and say "Hi"
(HI-HI HI-HI HI-HI HI-HI HI-HI HI-HI HI-HI HI-HI)
Half an hour later
She had frenched his fry
Advance romance
Bobby, say good-bye
Are you with me on this, people?
The man with the woman head
Polynesian wallpaper made the face stand out,
a mixture of Oriental and early vaudeville jazz poofter,
forming a hard, beetle-like, triangular chin much like a praying mantis.
Smoky razor-cut, low on the ear neck profile.
The face the color of a nicotine-stained hand.
Dark circles collected under the wrinkled, folded eyes,
map-like from too much turquoise eyepaint.
He showed his old tongue through ill-fitting wooden teeth,
stained from too much opium, chipped from the years.
The feet, brown wrinkles above straw loafers.
A piece of cocoanut coconut in a pink seashell caught the tongue and knotted into thin white strings.
Charcoal grey Eisenhower jacket zipped into a load of loaded green ascot.
A coil of ashes collected on the white-on-yellow dacsdaks.
Four slender bones with rings and nails endured the weight of a hard fast black rubber cigarette holder.
I could just make out Ace as he carried the tray and mouthed,
"You cheap son of a bitch" as a straw fell out of a Coke, cartwheeled into the gutter.
So this was a drive-in restaurant in Hollywood,
So this was a drive-in restaurant in Hollywood,
So this was a drive-in restaurant in Hollywood.
The Muffin Man is seated at the table
In the laboratory of the Utility Muffin Research Kitchen . . .
Reaching for an oversized chrome spoon
He gathers an intimate quantity of dried muffin remnants
And, brushing his scapular aside,
Proceeds to dump these inside of his shirt . . .
He turns to us and speaks:
"Some people like cupcakes better. I, for one,
Care LESS for them!"
Arrogantly twisting the sterile canvas snoot of a fully charged icing-anointment utensil,
He poots forth a quarter-ounce green rosetta
Near . . .
(Let's try that again . . . )
He poots forth a quarter-ounce green rosetta
Near the summit of a dense-but-radiant muffin of his own design
Later he says:
"Some people . . . some people like cupcakes exclusively,
While I myself say there is naught, nor ought there be,
Nothing so exalted on the face of God's grey earth
As that Prince of Foods . . . The Muffin!"
Girl, you thought he was a man
But he was a muffin
He hung around till you found
That he didn't know nuthin'
Girl, you thought he was a man
But he only was a-puffin'
No cries is heard in the night
As a result of him stuffin'
Girl, you thought he was a man
But he was a muffin
No cries is heard in the night
As a result of him stuffin'
FZ: Bruce Fowler on trombone, Napoleon Murphy Brock on tenor sax and lead vocals, Terry Bozzio on drums, Tom Fowler on bass, Denny Walley on slide, George Duke on keyboards, Captain Beefheart on vocals and soprano sax and madness. Thank you very much for coming to the concert tonight. Hope you enjoyed it. Goodnight Austin, Texas, where ever wherever you are!