They rush him into somewhere
He’s dancing in his chains
And the traitor’s melancholy
Feeling out of place
And he will have to dig
For miles underground of soil
If the freshmen
Dizzy from turning their back
[20 second instrumental to open]
Kingsley Mole sat high on a windy knoll, his eyes consuming the silent midnight woods.
He nuzzled his long molish snout deep inside the heart of a marigold and let his molish
imagination skip to and fro over sunken galleons and pirate pictures of rusted doubloons
and deep-water cabins stacked to the brim with musty muskets and goldfish gauntlets,
once worn by Henry Morgan. The lark awoke and doffed its plumed three cornered hat
to its own sleepy-eyed reflection, then it hopped past the crested nest of the snoring cuckoo,
and flew off into the Lionel Lark morning looking for friend Mole. Mole was on a marigold
comedown and sulkely scraped bluebeat rythms with his ground-digging paw.
“Yes,” he whispered, “Me and Li are going aquesting for the Lilly Pond of Fox Necks.
Li’ll know all the mapping gen[??], so the mole, kneeling on the soft soil, said a morning prayer
to Ra, not even caring if he dirtied his yellow Rupert trousers because his molish mind knew that
praying was special.
I look for joy in a strange place
From the back of the bar
From afar
I see the look on my mama’s face
When her son’s in the corner, undone
I look for joy in a strange place
From the back of the bar
From afar
I see the look on my mama’s face
When her son’s in the corner, undone
There were seven little Indians
Living in a brick house on
Central Avenue
Gathered ’round their daddy
Tellin’ stories in the living room
From a slightly unrealistic point of view
Momma was off yonder in the kitchen somewhere
Boiling up some hot water for them to all get up to their necks in
The seven little Indians new
If the rest of the tribe ever scrutinized their household
Somehow it would not pass inspection
The big chief railed on
And spun his tales of brave conquest
About the moving of his little band
Up to Alaska
Where the caribou run free
See he had been there putting in telephone lines
For the army during World War II
Even brought back a picture of a frozen mastodon
For the little Indians to see
And some mukluks and some sealskin gloves
And a coat with beads around the collar
His wife kept them in the mothballs
Underneath the Hudson Bays
