Broadway The Hard Way

Ladies and gentlemen:
Elvis has just left the building

Elvis has just left the building—
Those are his footprints, right there
Elvis has just left the building—
To climb up that heavenly stair

He gave away Cadillacs once in a while;
Had sex in his underpants,
Yes, he had style!
Bell-bottom jump-suits?
That's them in a pile,
But he don't need 'em now,
'Cause he's makin' Jesus smile!

Elvis has just left the building—
(There he goes!)
Those are his footprints, right there
Elvis has just left the building—
To climb up that heavenly stair

The Angels all love him,
He brings them relief
With droplets of moisture
From his handkerchief!
Cher'bim 'n ser'phim
Whizz over his head—
Jesus, let him come back!
We don't want Elvis dead!

So what if he looks like a wart-hog in heat?
He knows we all love him—
We'll just watch him eat,
So take down the foil
From his hotel retreat,
And bring back The King
For the man in the street!

Elvis has just left the building—
Those are his footprints, right there
Elvis has just left the building—
He's up there with Jesus, in a big purple chair

Meanwhile, on Wall Street . . .

On the Planet of the Baritone Women
They talk low
'Bout stuff they know.

They sing "Oooh!"
And laugh at you
(Ah-ha-ha-ha-hah! Hey!)

If you can't
(IF YOU CAN'T)
Do it too
(DO IT TOO)
(Ah-ha-ha-ha-hah! Hey!)

They sing "Li-Li-Li-Li!"
They sing "Lo-Lo-Lo-Lo!"
The men carry purses
Wherever they go

Junior executives.
All in a row,
Watch the Baritone Women
Do the Baritone show
(Ah-ha-ha-ha-hah! Hey!)

They sing about wheat;
They sing about corn;
They sing about places
Where women was born

They sing about hate!
They sing about fear!
It seems like they all got
A pretty good ear
(Ah-ha-ha-ha-hah! Hey!)

They sing it in harmony
Not often heard,
With a big ol' cadenza . . .
(Robert Martin, from Philadelphia,
Curtis Institute graduate, 1971
Let's hear it for him!)
On every long word

They keep it as low
As they possibly can,
And sometimes they walk
Like an E-GYP-TIAN
(Ah-ha-ha-ha-hah! Hey!)

They do choreography
Still more unique!
They leave their legs open
Whenever they speak!

They roll their eyes upward
And over again,
And slam their legs closed
When they sing about men!

Those Baritone Women!
They are not your friend!
(Ah-ha-ha-ha-hah!)

You will make a mistake
If you go there again!

Broadway The Hard Way, ladies and gentlemen!
Broadway The Hard Way!

You are the girl
Somebody invented
In a grim little office
On Madison Ave.

They were specific
They made you terrific:
Red lips;
Blue eyes;
Blonde hair;
Un-wise—
You're All-American,
And, darling, they said so

YOU'D TAKE ANY KIND OF PAIN FROM ME,
WOULDN'T YOU, BABY?
YOU'D TAKE ANY KIND OF PAIN FROM ME,
WOULDN'T YOU, BABY?
SINCE YOU HAVEN'T GOT A BRAIN,
LET ME JUST EXPLAIN:
ANY KIND OF PAIN
IS NEVER A MAYBE

What?

Senator Hollings: Maybe I could make a good rock star; I don't know.

Her head's full of bubbles;
Her nose is petite!
She looks like she never
Gets nothin' to eat!

'N she dines with actors,
'N Wall Street characters:
Dull talk;
Nice clothes—
See her?
She blows—
(She's so important
'Cause he gets to do talk shows—)

SHE'D TAKE ANY KIND OF PAIN FROM ME,
WOULDN'T SHE, BOBBY? (Yeah, she would!)
SHE'D TAKE ANY KIND OF PAIN FROM ME,
WOULDN'T SHE, BOBBY?
SINCE SHE HASN'T GOT A NAME,
LET ME JUST EXPLAIN:
ANY KIND OF PAIN
IS PROB'LY HER HOBBY

No . . . ow-ow-ow-oh . . . no . . .

She has moved up now;
She's come a long way—
They give her bunches
Of words she can say!

When she's in a bold mood,
"Confinement Loaf" sounds good—
That's right,
She's wrong!
Let's end
Her song

(It seems she's everywhere
We just can't escape her—
Is this a miracle of pure evolution?
And all the yuppie boys, they dream they will rape her—
She brings the BUS RIDE
To a thrilling conclusion!)

YES, SHE'S EVERY BIT AS TAME AS ME,
ISN'T SHE TENDER?
YES, SHE'S EVERY BIT AS LAME AS ME,
LET US REMEMBER,
SHE GETS ONLY HALF THE BLAME
ONLY HALF THE BLAME
ONLY HALF THE BLAME
UNLESS WE EXTEND HER—

FZ: Thank you! Hate to see this go to waste
Ike: Fringe. I mean that, man
FZ: All right. CNN ran a story last week about this new product that has been developed for our prison system. It is called "Confinement Loaf." Now what it is it's, uh, bean by-products compressed into a loaf, which is administered to problem prisoners. Their diet will be a slice of "Confinement Loaf" and a cup of water, and it seems to mellow them out right away. So my question is: How long before "Confinement Loaf" appears in United States High Schools?

One 'n one is eleven!
Two 'n two is twenty-two!
Won't somebody kindly tell me,
What the government's tryin' t' do . . .
Dickie's just too tricky
For a chump like me to use, oh use
You take that sub-committee serious, boy (and I'm serious)
You just might get a seizure from the evenin' news

Millions 'n millions of dollars . . .
Much as he might need . . . (good work!)
He could open up a chain of motels, people,
On the highway, yes indeed!

Quadrophonic desperation! (oh, pinch that loaf now!)
There might be confinement loaf up under your bed (well . . . )
You know if you just might pinch a little loaf in your slumber (pffft . . . NURSE!)
The FBI is gonna get your number

GONNA GET YA
GONNA GET YA
GONNA JUMP OUT THE SUB-COMMITTEE AND GET YA!

THE FBI
GONNA GET YOUR NUMBER
THE FBI
GONNA GET YOUR NUMBER
THE FBI
GONNA GET YOUR NUMBER
THE FBI
GONNA GET YOUR NUMBER
THE FBI
THEY ALREADY GOT YOUR PICTURE
THE FBI
AND YOUR FINGERPRINTS TOO
THE FBI
THEN THEY GOT A GUY IN VIRGINIA
THE FBI
WHIPPING UP A LITTLE SOUP JUST FOR YOU

GONNA GET YOUR NUMBER
GONNA GET YOUR NUMBER

Tryin' not to worry
Tryin' not to care
But you know, I get so excited
When that soup goes over there

Can't have no private conversation
Nowhere
In the USA
Can't wait 'til the rest of the people all over the the world
Find out that their confinement loaf
Is just the same ol' way
Every day . . .
(Pinch that loaf now!)

Let me tell you about this right now
Let me tell you about this right here
Let me make this perfectly clear
Let me tell you about this right here
You know you put me in office
So you must have wanted me in office
I've did you no harm
I used to have twenty-five tapes
Now I only got ten
Can't remember what happened to the rest
Musta gave 'em to a friend
Gave a couple to Bebe Rebozo
Gave a couple to Pat Boone
Gave a couple to Ronald Reagan
Gave a couple to the new vice-president
He said he'd stick with me through thick and thin
Even if I invaded Nicaragua
You know I'm not a crook
You know I'm not a crook
I just wanna lie about one more thing right now . . .
(Say yeah yeah . . . )

The gangster stepped right up,
'N kissed him on the lips good-bye
Made him a cock-sucker by proxy, yes he did,
An' he didn't even bat an eye!

The man in the White House—oooh!
He's got a conscience black as sin!
(Yeah, maybe I . . . I don't know but, it's just a training exercise)
There's just one thing I wanna know—
How'd that asshole ever manage to get in?

They're all the same, so sing right along now:

DICKIE'S SUCH AN ASSHOLE
Sincerely, Dick, we mean it
Sincerely, Ron, we mean it
Sincerely, Dick and Ron, we continue to mean it
Wee-ooo

Now let's bring the Republican Party up to date . . .

(Pinch it good!
You know, that confinement loaf is real good stuff
Hey, you oughta try some!)

They got lies so big
They don't make a noise
They tell 'em so well
Like a secret disease
That makes you go numb

With a big ol' lie
And a flag and a pie
And a mom and a bible
Most folks are just liable
To buy any line
Any place, any time

When the lie's so big
As in Robertson's case,
(That sinister face
Behind all the Jesus hurrah)

Could result in the end
To a worrisome trend
In which every American
Not "born again"
Could be punished in cruel and unusual ways
By this treacherous cretin
Who tells everyone
That he's Jesus' best friend

When the lies get so big
And the fog gets so thick
And the facts disappear
The Republican Trick
Can be played out again
People, please tell me when
We'll be rid of these men!

Just who do they really
Suppose that they are?
And how do they manage to travel as far
As they seem to have come?
Were we really that dumb?

People, wake up
Figure it out
Religious fanatics
Around and about
The Court House, The State House,
The Congress, The White House

Criminal saints
With a "Heavenly Mission"—
A nation enraptured
By pure superstition

Do you believe in the Invisible Army?
(Yes, indeed!)

When the lie's so big
And the fog's so thick
And the facts get forgotten
Then the Republican Trick
(Ketchup is a vegetable!)
Can be played out again
People, please tell me when
We'll be rid of these men!

Rhymin' Man,
Tall and tan,
Rhyme or reason,
Play your hand—
Rhyme on this—rhyme on that
Oh, you naughty Democrat!

They say when Doctor King got shot,
Jesse hatched an awful plot,
Dipped his hands in the Doctor's blood,
'N rubbed his shirt like playin' with mud
Looked around for all the press,
Said: "Check me out, my name is Jess!
I'll be known from towns 'n farms—
Doctor King died in my arms!"

Rhymin' Man,
Tall and tan,
Rhyme or reason,
Play your hand—
Rhyme on this—rhyme on that
Oh, you naughty Democrat!

A few years later, legend says,
Rhymin' Man made a run for Prez
Farrakhan made him a clown,
Over there near Hymie-Town
Said he was a diplomat—
Hobbin' an-a-knobbin' with Arafat
Castro was simpatico,
But the U.S. voters, they said: "No!"

Rhymin' Man,
Tall and tan,
Rhyme or reason,
Play your hand—
Rhyme on this—rhyme on that
Oh, you naughty Democrat!

Okay, here we go again!
Rhymin' Man says he's your friend
Any fool can make a rhyme—
Cowboys do it all the time
(They sure do, they sure do)
People say: "Now he's mature!"
Cowboys rhyme that with horse manure

Horse manure!
(Horse manure)
That's for sure!
You been cheatin'—
We kept score!
Are you "this"?
Or are you "that"?
Oh, you naughty
Demo . . . (crat!)
Democrat!

Here we go!

The Surgeon General, Doctor Koop
S'posed to give you all the poop
But when he's with P.M.R.C.
The poop he's scoopin'
Amazes me

C-Span showed him, all dressed up
In his phoney Doctor God get-up
He looked in the camera and fixed his specs
'N gave a fascinating lecture
'Bout anal sex
ANAL SEX
ANAL SEX
ANAL SEX
ANAL SEX

He says it is not good for us
We just can't be promiscuous
He's just a doctor—he should know
It's the work of the Devil, so
Girls, don't blow!
DON'T BLOW
DON'T BLOW

Don't blow Jimmy, don't blow Bobby
Get yourself another hobby
(If Jesus practiced medicine
I'm sure he'd do it
Just like him)

Is Doctor Koop a man to trust?
It seems at least that Reagan must
(And Ron's a trusting sort of guy—
He trusts Ed Meese
I wonder why?)
I WONDER WHY
WONDER WHY

The A.M.A. has just got caught
For doin' stuff they shouldn't ought
All they do is lie and lie
Where's Doctor Koop?
He's standin' by

Surgeon General? What's the deal?
Is your epidemic real?
Are we leaving something out?
Something we can't talk about?
A little green monkey over there
Kills a million people?
That's not fair!
Did it really go that way?
Did you ask the C.I.A.?
Would they take you serious,
Or have THEY been
Promiscuous
Have THEY been Promiscuous
Have THEY been Promiscuous
Have THEY been Promiscuous

Rico! Youngblood! Wake up!
Prohibition is over, but the country's still a mess!
They need us out there!
We've got some cleaning up to do—especially when it comes to
THIS GUY . . .
Get those sport coats on with the big lapels . . .
They're back—they're fashionable again!
Okay—let's look at some mug-sheets
of the suspects from the 80's . . .

ADMIRAL POINDEXTER! Get back on Felix The Cat where you belong!
Get the damn pipe out of your mouth!
You're history, you're gone!

OLIVER NORTH! No "Secret Government" for you, buddy!
You're over! you're through!

BILL CASEY! You're dead!
(I mean that . . . )

BUSH! You're still a wimp—I'm sorry—You're history!

DEAVER! NOFZIGER! You're crooks! Book 'em Dan-o! Dan-o? How'd he get in the show? Get outta here!

REAGAN! You're asleep! Wake up! The country's in a mess!
You're on your way out anyway, buddy
You're history—you're meat—you're through!
You're vapor—you're baloney without the mayo, buddy!
You're outta here—In fact, it's Robin Leach instead!
"I don't know why . . . "

Hey, fellas—take me to the bridge! I want it now!
Rico! Youngblood! Let's get outta here! It's all over!

THE UNTOUCHABLES!

FZ: And The Untouchables are: Ike Willis . . .
Ike: Thank you!
FZ: Mike Keneally . . .
Ike: History!
FZ: Walt Fowler, Bruce Fowler, Paul Carman, Albert Wing, Kurt McGettrick, Chad Wackerman, Ed Mann, Robert Martin, Scott Thunes, Eric Buxton . . . Thanks for coming to the show, and good night!

"He's white, Jim . . . "

Why don't you like me?
Why don't you like me?
Why don't you like me?
Am I really that bad?
HE'S BAD, HE'S BAD, HE'S BAD

"I think you're a jerk! I'm moving from you!"
"Make me a sandwich."
"Moving to Venice."
"I'll be black."
(Jack! What?)

"Still white, Jim . . . "

I hate my mother
I hate my father
I am my sister . . .
And Jermaine is a negro!
A NEGRO! A NEGRO! A NEGRO!

"I thought he looked good—what happened to you?"
"Please read this pamphlet."
"I'm so bad!"

You take the monkey, I'll take the llama
We'll have a party: get me a Pepsi
Michael is Janet, Janet is Michael
I'm so confused now
Who is Diana?

He's oxygenated
His nose is deflated
And he thinks he looks good to you
He thinks he looks good to you

Ed: Oh, I'm sorry . . .
FZ: This is supposed to be the part where I name people who are not related in any particular way to Michael Jackson, so . . . Oh, let's see now, who could it be? Uh, what's your name . . . ? His name is Bob? Bob is not the illegitimate son of Michael Jackson, take it from me . . .

Billy Jean is not Mr. Bob

FZ: Arnold Silvestri . . .
Ike: Ha ha ha!

Billy Jean isn't Arnold Silvestri

FZ: Jeanne Kirkpatrick . . .

Billy Jean is not Kirkpatrick

FZ: Lando Calrissian . . .

Give me oxygen
Give me oxygen
Give me oxygen
Box o' turds

FZ: That's right, a box o' turds!

While I was down in W.D.C.
Certain folks were not glad to see me
I just tried to get out the vote
But some little weasel must 'a dropped 'em a note
It said:
"Check out the politics
Practiced by this oaf
And if they ain't just right
Feed him Confinement Loaf."

They wanne be
Feedin' me
Feedin' me
Feedin' me
Feedin' me
Feedin' me
Feedin' me
Feedin' me
Feedin' me
LOAF . . . loaf

Feedin' me
Feedin' me
Feedin' me
Feedin' me
Feedin' me
Feedin' me
Feedin' me
Feedin' me
LOAF . . . loaf

Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
LOAF . . . now!

 

FZ: All right . . . Now, this afternoon on my way down the elevator we stopped at the lobby, and I was introduced to a man named Sting who I'd never met before. And, he's a very nice man, and he came to the show tonight and I just talked to him in the dressing room a little while ago and I said: "How would you, Mr. Sting, like to come up on stage and perform with us?" Now . . .
Sting: How's [...]. It's not in my nature to kick a man when he's down. When I saw the first part of the show I realised I had to come up here and tell you something. Well, four years ago Jimmy Swaggart said this about me: He said this here song by The Police, "Murder By Numbers," was written by SATAN! Performed by the sons of SATAN! BEELZEBUB! LUCIFER! THE HORNED ONE! I wrote the fuckin' song, all right?

Once that you've decided on a killing
First you make a stone of your heart
If you find that your hands are still willing
Then you can turn a murder into art
There really isn't any need for bloodshed
You just do it with a little more finesse

If you can slip a tablet into someone's coffee
Then it avoids an awful lot of mess because
It's murder by numbers one two three
It's as easy to learn as your ABC
Murder by numbers one two three
It's as easy to learn as your ABC

Now if you have a taste for this experience
And you're flushed with your very first success
Then you must try a twosome or a threesome
And you'll find your conscience bothers you much less
Because a murder is like anything you take to
It's a habit-forming need for more and more

You can bump off every member of your family
And anybody else you find a bore
Because it's murder by numbers one two three
It's as easy to learn as your ABC
Murder by numbers one two three
It's as easy to learn as your ABC
I said murder by numbers one two three
It's as easy to learn as your ABC
Murder by numbers one two three
It's as easy to learn as your ABC
Murder by numbers A B C D E

FZ: Mr. Sting! Ladies and gentlemen . . . Mr. Sting!
Ike: Sting!
FZ: Thank you! "Murder By Numbers" . . . And then, suddenly . . .

Jezebel Boy!
You know all the guys
In the Sheriff's Patrol
They leave you alone
When they round up the whores
Up on Hollywood Boulevard

(What?
Now this is what happens in Los Angeles . . . )

Sometimes that ol' nasty D.A., you see,
Seems to think he needs his name
In the paper again—
That's when
The short-pants girls
They have to take that ride
With a friendly, friendly policeman

But the Jezebel Boy
On the corner by the Technicolor processing plant
He stands by the light;
Waitin' through that night
Waitin', waitin' for that, that, that distinguished-looking
Wilshire District Gentleman
With snow-white hair,
(Senator Hollings: Maybe I could make a good rock star.)
To drive up in his Linkum,
And whisk away the Jezebel Boy

There he goes now!
Old Ralph will make him put that wretched
Sausage in his mouth again

Ike: Hah hah hah! Hah hah hah!
FZ: Go ahead!
Ike: Hah hah hah!
FZ: Want it again?
Ike: Yeah, sure!

Old Ralph will make him put that wretched
Sausage in his mouth again
And again
(And yet again)
Aaaaand . . . one mo' gin

Well, hah! Well, you know what they say . . .
Another day,
Another sausage—
Jezebel Boy

These executives have plooked the fuck out of me
And there's still a long time to go before I've
Paid my debt to society
And all I ever really wanted to do was
Play the guitar 'n bend the string like
Reent-toont-teenooneenoonee

I've got it
I'll be sullen and withdrawn
I'll dwindle off into the twilight realm
Of my own secret thoughts
I'll lay on my back here 'til dawn
In a semi-catatonic state
And dream of guitar notes
That would irritate
An executive kinda guy . . .

Well, I guess that one did the trick
If they only coulda heard it
Half-a-dozen of 'em woulda strangled
While they was suckin' on each others' dick
Yeah, but that was only a bunch of imaginary
Notes I played
Just a little extra somethin'
To keep me goin' from day to day
But that's okay
I'm gettin' outta here pretty soon
Then I won't have to live
In this ugly fuckin' room

Hey! I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now

I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now
Listen here!

I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now
Listen here, yeah!

I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now

Outside now
Outside now
Outside now
Outside . . .

Sing it! I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now

I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now
Yeah!

I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now
Yeah!

I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .

I used to have a job
An' I was doin' fairly well
Depression came along
An' everybody start to yell
"Where'd they go, them good ol' days,
'An all that crap we used to sell?"
Now I'm in Hot-Plate Heaven,
at the Green Hotel

Republicans is fine,
If you're a multi-millionaire
Democrats is fair,
If all you own is what you wear
Neither of 'em's REALLY right,
'Cause neither of 'em CARE
'Bout that Hot-Plate Heaven,
'Cause they ain't been there

They really oughta go
'N find out how the hall-way smell—
They'd benefit to know
'Bout what the bums in there could tell
(I guess we're only dreamin',
But I s'pose it's just as well
That's ALL you get to dream
Up in the Green Hotel)

Nature didn't put me here,
An' neither did my fate—
It musta been some evil ol'
Republican candidate!
He's over there in Washington,
But I wish he was in HELL
'Cause I'm in Hot-Plate Heaven
At the Green Hotel

Things is slightly better now;
They hope we will forget
The misery of 'TRICKLE DOWN',
An' jelly-bean etiquette
The Regal Presidential Style
Has simply not worn well,
But neither has my rags,
Up in the Green Hotel

(I said) the Green Hotel
(I mean) the Green Hotel
(Been there once) the Green Hotel
(An' gone again) the Green Hotel

Neither has my rags
Up in the Green Hotel

Pass me the dog food!

What's a girl like you
Doin' in a Motel like this?

"I left my place after midnight,
When I first got the call . . .
The escort service I work for
Said you wanted it ALL!"

Well, you came to the right place—this is it!
I got the most sanctified johnson in all Louisiana!
No shit!

"How true that is!"

How true, indeed, Llama!

"The other whores at the service said
You helped fulfill their need!
I like to get right down . . .
Do you like to get right down too?"

Well, what did you have in mind?

"Well, I get off being spoo-ed upon
By hypocritical TV preachers
With close ties to the Republican Party,
While Ed Meese wipes his ass
On the U.S. Constitution, screamin' . . .

That is I think I know tune in
But it's all wrong
That is I think I disagree

'I don't think so—
I can't remember—
I just couldn't ever do that—'"

Gets me so hot I could scream:
'I don't think so: can't remember who . . .
Wrote the memo, or to whom it's to . . . '

Hey, your escort service has always been far-out 'n groovy—
Ever been to the Texas Motel?
Let me take you dow-how-how-how-how-how-hownnnnn!

Magic Jesus by the bed,
Wall mounted TV screen,
My church plugged into the gravy train,
And Reagan keeps me clean!

What kind of girl?
What kind of girl would suck his rod?
What kind of girl?
What kind of girl would suck his rod?
(A lazy prostitute!)
We wouldn't blow you just because you know "GOD"!
What kind of girl?
What kind of girl would suck his rod?

This unfortunate little vixen wouldn't let just ANYBODY
Spoo all over her lap—
She wants an ignorant Cracker TV Evangelist
Who's reciting all that crap . . .

Yes, friends . . . Pass the plate around, friends . . . Join us, friends . . .

There's an ugly little weasel 'bout three-foot nine
Face puffed up from cryin' 'n lyin'
'Cause her sweet little hubby's
Suckin' prong part time
(In the name of The Lord)

Get a clue, little shrew
Oh yeah, oh yeah
Jesus thinks you're a jerk
Would he really choose Tammy to do His Work? Unh-unh

Hallelujah!
(Yes, friends . . . )

Robertson says that he's The One
Oh he sure is, if Armageddon
Is your idea of family fun,
An' he's got some planned for you!
(Now, tell me that ain't true)

Give me that old time religion!

Now, what if Jimbo's slightly gay,
Will Pat let Jimbo get away?
Everything we've heard him say
Indicates that Jim must pay,
(And it just might hurt a bit) Just a bit!
But keep that money rollin' in,
'Cause Pat and naughty Jimbo
Can't get enough of it (let's dance!)

Perhaps it's their idea
Of an Affirmative Action Plan
To give White Trash a 'special break';
Well, they took those Jeezo-bucks and ran
To the bank! To the bank! To the bank! To the bank!
And every night we can hear them thank
Their Buddy, up above
For sending down his love
(While you all smell the glove)

Henry Cisneros, ladies and gentlemen!

Jim and Pat should take a pole
(Right up each saintly glory-hole),
With tar and feathers too—
Just like they'd love to do to you

('Cause they think you are bad—
Yes, they do!
And they are very mad)

'Cause some folks don't want prayer in school!

(We'd need an ark to survive the drool
Of Micro-publicans, raised on hate,
And 'Jimbo-Jumbo' when they graduate)

Convinced they are 'The Chosen Ones'—
And all their parents carry guns,
(Hey, look! Godzilla!)
And hold them cards in the N.R.A.
(Ah, hellfire, Melvin, hey hee!)
(With their fingers on the trigger
("It's hot.")
When they kneel and pray)
("I mean that . . . ")

With a Ku-Klux muu-muu
In the back of the truck,
If you ain't Born Again,
They wanna mess you up, screamin':
"No abortion, no-siree!"
"Life's too precious, can't you see!"
(What's that hangin' from a neighbor's tree?
Why, it looks like 'colored folks' to me—
Would THEY do THAT . . .
They've been doin' it for years!
Seriously?)

And now, ladies and gentlemen, the dynamic Eric Buxton

Imagine if you will,
A multi-millionaire TV Evangelist,
Saved from Korean Combat duty by his father, a U.S. Senator

Studied law—
But is not qualified to practice it

Father of a "love child"
Who, in adulthood, hosts the remnants
Of papa's religious propaganda program

Claims not to be a "Faith Healer,"
But has, in the past,
Dealt sternly with everything from hemorrhoids to hurricanes

Involved with funding for an 'undeclared war' in Central America
Claiming Ronald Reagan and Oliver North as close friends

Involved in suspicous 'tax-avoidance schemes',
(Under investigation for 16 months by the I.R.S.)

Claims to be a MAN OF GOD;
Currently seeking the United States Presidency,
Hoping we will all follow him into—
The Twilight Zone

But, hey! What if Pat gets in the White House,
(No fuckin' way, Ike,
You know what I mean)
The rights of 'certain people' disappear
Mysteriously?

Now, wouldn't that sort of qualify
As an American Tragedy?
(Especially if they cover it up, sayin'
"Jesus told it to me!")
(I mean vapor tight, we're like this, okay?
I mean that)
I hope we never see that day,
(I mean that. Right here. It's hot. It's hot.)
In The Land of The Free—
Or someday will we?
(92?)
Will we?
(96?)

And if you don't know by now,
The truth of what I'm tellin' you,
Then, surely I have failed somehow—
Surely I have failed somehow
Surely I have failed somehow

And Jesus will think I'm a jerk, just like you—
If you let those TV Preachers
Make a monkey out of you!

I said:
"Jesus will think you're a jerk"
And it would be true!

There's an old rugged cross
In the land of the Stainless Maiden—
It's just burnin' on the lawn
But this person looks like Tom Braden!

Jim and Tammy!
Oh, baby!
You gotta go!
You really got to go!
Jim and Tammy got to go

FZ: Ladies and gentlemen, this is intermission. Get your butt out there and register to vote! Would you please? See you in a half an hour!