Without her flying tresses
I would have, heretofore
Had quite a hard time guessing
From which way the wind blows
Absolutely nothing should be thrown away
On a desert island all of her must stay
I wonder how I ever
Survived without her cheeks
That fed me two red apples
On each day of the week
Without her throat, my head
Deprived of its pillow
Would have no other bed
Besides the dirty floor
Without her solid carriage
What would happen, who knows
If I should lose my bearings
And need a hand to hold?
She has a thousand other
Most precious attributes
But on the stage, I'd rather
Not show them all to you
The charms of my love are
Many, but the masses
Must go somewhere else for
Anatomy classes
In fact, this is her weakness
She loves her bones a lot
She'd never acquiesce
To be cut into parts
She's not a little proud
And also ticklish, quite
And one must take the lot
Or leave her all behind
Absolutely nothing should be thrown away
On a desert island all of her must stay
When I was just a little lad
My fear of swearing was so bad
That even if I thought the word "shit"
I never uttered it, But
Now that I earn my daily wage
Ranting and raving from the stage
"Shit" never stays inside my head
Instead it's said
I'm the pornographer of the phonograph, sir
The perverted son of the sing-along
To titilate the balcony
I spew all kinds of infamy
Mouthfulls of raw and trashy French
That don't make any sense, but
When I'm back home under my roof
I blame my soul with much reproof
And cry "You twisted little elf
Go fuck yourself"
Every Sunday I'm in the booth
Confessing all my words uncouth
Giving the priest my solemn prayer
To hide my derriere, but
Fearing if I clean up my show
I'll end up singing on skid row
I'm back up on stage pretty fast
Showing my ass
My wife, to put it mildly
Has a certain proclivity
That makes her like to lay in the nude
With just any old dude, But
In all sincerity, how may
I speak about this on the stage
If I can't tell you that she's got
Fire in her twat?
Surely I'd gain much satisfaction
Even a medal for my actions
Singing with fervor of the love
Reserved for God above, But
My angel told me from her cloud
"Singing of love is not allowed
Unless that love describes the lore
Of a filthy whore"
And when I elegantly play
For the boss of a cabaret
Some pretty tune pulled from my vest
It just leaves him depressed, And
Holding back tears, he begs of me
"If you sing flowers' majesty
For pity's sake please let them grow
In a bordello
Every evening before I eat
I sit out on my balcony
Eyeing the gentle folks below
In the setting sun's glow, But
Don't ask me to compose a poem
If it would upset you to know
That I like watching every day
Cunts on parade
All the good souls with righteous hearts
Are glad to know that when I depart
Satan will make a shishkabob
Of this foul-mouthed slob, But
May the Lord in his omnipotence
For whom words make no difference
Admit into that shining tower
On that somber hour
Me, the pornographer of the phonograph, sir
The perverted son of the sing-along