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about

lyrics

(J. Campbell)

Birth of the knack with a tacked paper plaque
I was going for something that required a back track
about face, to the garden of thought space
and to my dismay, came at relative quick pace
“Move!”, was the general attitude
You can’t go for broke
until you find the interlude
“Why?”, asked the man on the wall
As we all watch him fall

Boom bang bounce and a shudder
The man arouse from the ground in a stutter
of the one word that came from beyond – it was peace
And his face grew long
because back on the wall were all his diseases
right next to his double-barrel Jesus
He was taking a long pause
Trying to figure whose fault it was – he was busy!

Humpty Dumpty once sat on the wall
Sitting on the wall, shaking his fist
The kings horses all around him
The men on the horses pretend to protect him
Mustering up, they brought some change from their pockets
The men on the horses pulled their swords from their sockets
and looked at the small man, taking their blades in their good hands
they scrambled the man to a pale shade of yellow
The wall caught the most of the freshly whisked fellow
And the men just giggled
as the shell still wiggled – he was dead

Beginning his break out bouncing from his shell
Looking for heaven while screaming like hell
He took it upon himself to see a tunnel
and slipped through it like water in a funnel
Bright lights blinded him at the end
smooth voices around of his long dead friends
asking why the hell did he sit on that wall
He set himself up to take on the fall that went

Boom bang bounce and a shudder
The man, still standing there all in a stutter
of the one word that came from beyond – it was peace
And his face grew long
because back on the wall were all his diseases
right next to his double-barrel Jesus
He was taking a long pause
Trying to figure whose fault it was – he was busy!

credits

from Last night at the old hotel, released August 2, 2014
A: djembe
bt: banjo
db: bass
HCM: ukelele
JC: kazoo, vox
TM: drum kit
(special guest) Heinous Bienfäng: Humpty Dumpty story

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Oranga Tanga West Melbourne, Florida

Strange stirrings are reported from the jungle. A breeze swirls the atmosphere like a nun stirs her morning coffee. The smell of drums is heavy in the air, like a remembered punch. The natives, never ones to contemplate these things, are restless and getting restlesser. There is no unrestlesting the restlesserification of… this is where the doctor said I should stop writing. ... more

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