Makin' It

I'm a nut, baby.
You're loose a screw.
Before you bolt,
I've got a project made for two.

We'll be makin it, baby.
As best we can.
We'll be makin' it, baby.
Makin' it ourselves.
Makin' it by hand.

I've got a ball-peen hammer.
Baby, I've got wood.
You let the glue flow,
we'll stick stuff together,
nail it good.

We'll be makin it, baby.
As best we can.
We'll be makin' it, baby.
Makin' it ourselves.
Makin' it by hand.

I'm a mighty, musky man but I've
come apart at the seams.
Preacher says, "talk to the carpenter"
but I'm hammered butt joint to beam.

Things fall apart,
rust and come undone.
Carpentry and plumbing
serve both uncouth and bon ton.

I choose uncouth.

I'm a nut, baby.
You're loose a screw.
Before you bolt,
I've got a project made for two.

We'll be makin it, baby.
As best we can.
We'll be makin' it, baby.
Makin' it ourselves.
Makin' it by hand.

Makin' it, baby.

Box

Think maybe I'll make a box.
I think I'd like to make things out of wood.
But then maybe
I should think
about
the folks who make that wood.

Are the underage?
Do they get fair wage?
Lunch breaks?
And an HR guy who knows
how
to manage their 401ks?

Oh, man. I want to help them out.
Really I could really do the proletariat good.
And then maybe
they'd be grateful
and they'd give me the gift of wood.

Are they underage?
Do they get a fair wage?
Lunch breaks?
And an HR guy who knows
how
to manage their 401ks?

New Recording: Bring Me an Egg, Sweet Jesus

Listen to it if you must.

Bring Me An Egg, Sweet Jesus

The green grass grew up early this year.
In fact, it never left.
I might believe in climate change
if in faith I was bereft.
Now, Christ he comes in bunny form--
I'm clear on all the facts,
as clear as the sky, as clear as my
mangled, rhymed syntax.

So,
Bring me an egg, sweet Jesus.
Come invisibly, in bunny shape.
Sweet candies you hide
in the hole in your side.
Reach in.
Reach in.
And bring me an egg, sweet Jesus.

I always vote Republican.
The way the bible says.
And I'll root for the Jews in Jerusalem
up until the end of days.
Jesus is furry when he wants to be--
that's just the way things are.
And he'll smite the Jews when he wants to too,
and the followers of Ishtar.

So,
Bring me an egg, sweet Jesus.
Come invisibly, in bunny shape.
Sweet candies you hide
in the hole in your side.
Reach in.
Reach in.
And bring me an egg, sweet Jesus.

Umlaut

I need to correct a few of my pseudodeutsch spellings, but here's a glorious blast from the genius Dzhrew. He came up with the idea & wrote some of it, then we recorded it together at his place, manye yearse agoe.

Umlaut

Fraulein mit der Reichstag glockenspiel
lederhosen strasse waffen macht.
Fraulein ist kaputen bundesbank.
Liebchen fraulein schnitzel: auch, mein gott!

Umlaut umlaut umlaut umlaut...

Ubersturmbam fraulein kraftwerk kopf
Leibe Hansel Gretel ubermensch
Kinder kinder kinder kinder nicht mach schnell
Und der kinder kinder kinder achtung kunst gestalt.

Umlaut umlaut umlaut umlaut...

Fraulein mit gedanken avtobahn
sauerkraut verboten. Guten tak!
Schweinhund ist geshundheit und kaput
und das underwasserreichenmachenwagonboot.

Umlaut umlaut umlaut umlaut...

Weinerschnitzel bratwurst luftballon,
Wagner, Goethe, Hegel, Otto von Bismark,
Pilsner heute panzerfallen schnauzer raus
und der teufel trinken richtich avtomat.

Umlaut umlaut umlaut umlaut...

Jagermeister avtobiken damen und herren,
krakhmacher, Postdamer, gummi bearen.
Scheisse mit der cuckooclocken heimlichpest.
Nachten musick machen auf Oktoberfest.

Christmas Makes Me Sick

I'm surprised I never posted this. It dates back to just before I started the blog, I think. Here 'tis:

Christmas Makes Me Sick

This time every year, Santa comes down the flue.
Meanwhile, just to be parallel, I contract the flu.
Santa hands out presents every Christmastime.
Me, I deliver germs and coughs and buckets of nasal slime, 'cause

Christmas makes me sick.
Christmas makes me sick.
Every year a fever visits just before old Saint Nick.
Christmas makes me cough.
Christmas makes me spew.
Don't talk to me about peace and joy.
I'm full of Christmas goo.

Gonna live in a Christmas bubble,
a festive plastic home.
I won't let Santa in unless he disinfects his gnomes.
Please don't bring me presents.
In fact, don't come at all.
I'm fine here alone in my plastic home drinking germ-proof alcohol, cause

Christmas makes me sick.
Christmas makes me sick.
Every year a fever visits just before old Saint Nick.
Christmas makes me cough.
Christmas makes me spew.
Don't talk to me about peace and joy.
I'm coughing up fondue.

Asian! Avian! Spanish! Fun!
It's killed more than World War I.
The grippe, the croup, the hacking cough,
knocking half of Europe off.
Russian, swine and Hong Kong hit.
Thank you, antigenic shift.
Nature wracks its fiendish brains
to deck the halls with new flu strains.

Christmas makes me sick.
Christmas makes me sick.
Every year a fever visits just before old Saint Nick.
Christmas makes me cough.
Christmas makes me spew.
Don't talk to me about peace and joy.

New Recording: My Baby Hates Christmas

Click here to get your own player.

New Recording, Old Technology: Bein' the Man Blues

I finished my first viable cigar box guitar last night and celebrated by recording a quick Bein' the Man Blues.

The Left Stomock is almost a year old now. The year's output consists of 17 song lyrics, about 13 of which exist as some sort of recorded monstrosity. This leads us to say, "Khosighingda aghrighing bolmisa, tavuz yeyixtin khorkhma."

Gutcasting

Can't get enough of that precious, precious gut? Subscribe to the Stomock gutcast at http://capnstomock.podomatic.com/. It's like a feeding tube delivering pure flavor (flavour, even) from our guts directly to yours.

It's Not Russia

Centralizing power,
waging war against secession
via rampant nostalgia
for imperial aggression.

Amid currency crises,
and regional depressions,
conspicuous consumption
of material posessions.

Baby, times are hard
in the land that was the land of the Tsars,
so the past looks better
than it ever really was.

But, baby, it's not Russia... it's us.

An aging population starts
to think about birth rates,
the future of the nation
if it fails to procreate.

Riots...
breaking out on the fringes.
Growing concern
about alcohol binges.

Baby, times are hard
in the land that was the land of the Tsars,
so the past looks better
than it ever really was.

But, baby, it's not Russia... it's us.

Written & recorded in one shot this evening, without bothering to tune my guitar, divert from my usual guitar strumming mode & progression, or change from the default echo patch on my vocal processor. Enjoy.