A writer must “know and have an ever-present consciousness that this world is a world of fools and rogues… tormented with envy, consumed with vanity; selfish, false, cruel, cursed with illusions… He should free himself of all doctrines, theories, etiquettes, politics…” —Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914?). “The nobility of the writer's occupation lies in resisting oppression, thus in accepting isolation” —Albert Camus (1913-1960). “What are you gonna do” —Bertha Brown (1895-1987).
Here's a little song about a man gone wrong while building up his evil empire. And after months of ifs and buts the papers got the guts to call The Man Of The Year a liar, to call the Man of the Year a liar.
Hustlin' and bustlin' across the big green lawn stampin' through the famous rose garden, but every little rose turned up its pretty nose, saying "You owe the earth a pardon," saying "You owe the earth a pardon."
Fumblin' and bumblin' through the halls at night, turn every light switch on, searching for the room where you used to be the groom but she's packed all her jewelry and gone. Yeah, she's scooped up all her jewelry and gone.
Well, the former residents and Mrs. President left you corn and lima beans and tomatoes. You said "Rip 'em all out. They'll only give you gout and that's unbecoming for a future dictator, and that's unbecoming for a future dictator.
And you're gonna build a wall, the big-liest wall, the beautifulliest wall around our borders but here's what I think, you better talk to a shrink, 'cause you got serious psychological disorders. You've got dangerous pathological disorders.
Well, that's my little song about a man gone wrong. He's nasty from his head to his feet. When the dirt on this man finally hits the fan and no one gives a damn about his tweets, he'll be finally and forever obsolete.
Nasty Man by Joan Baez
ReplyDeleteHere's a little song
about a man gone wrong
while building up his evil empire.
And after months of ifs and buts
the papers got the guts
to call The Man Of The Year a liar,
to call the Man of the Year a liar.
Hustlin' and bustlin'
across the big green lawn
stampin' through the famous rose garden,
but every little rose
turned up its pretty nose,
saying "You owe the earth a pardon,"
saying "You owe the earth a pardon."
Fumblin' and bumblin'
through the halls at night,
turn every light switch on,
searching for the room
where you used to be the groom
but she's packed all her jewelry
and gone.
Yeah, she's scooped up all her jewelry
and gone.
Well, the former residents
and Mrs. President
left you corn and lima beans and tomatoes.
You said "Rip 'em all out.
They'll only give you gout
and that's unbecoming for a future dictator,
and that's unbecoming for a future dictator.
And you're gonna build a wall,
the big-liest wall,
the beautifulliest wall around our borders
but here's what I think,
you better talk to a shrink,
'cause you got serious psychological disorders.
You've got dangerous pathological disorders.
Well, that's my little song
about a man gone wrong.
He's nasty from his head to his feet.
When the dirt on this man
finally hits the fan
and no one gives a damn about his tweets,
he'll be finally and forever obsolete.