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by Joseph White

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Meat Magnate Mackey Showing polaroids of his baloney pony All made up to look Swedish Photoshopped to seem young Got that shine to look tasty Stirrups flash in the sun "Ain't she a beaut!" he bellows Faint of heart hide your eyes You pass that bill promptly He'll let you go for a ride Oh, but it looks so unhealthy! Grey and dry on the sides Don't you think you should rest it? "Not at all!" he replies 'Cause in the Gainer container all bets are off And you'll learn to love yourself If you can't catch a wave or grind your spurs Just pretend you're someone else Bank Bigwig Bentley Stole the polaroids of the baloney pony Found them perched on a humidor as Mackey was chewing a bone Spread some grease on his abdomen And made his new photos a home Oh! But they chafe something dreadful especially when you're squirming prone don't you think you should remove them? "Not at all!" Bentley moans...
Prologue 01:56
Special Dad 00:56
Gainer's got a Special Dad The only one he's ever had A portrait that can talk and think and scheme and drink... As a young man Boomwaggle's thighs ran with the grease, no peace doctors said it wouldn't cease Each day the ooze flowed as the quantity would grow So he had an operation a 2-D regeneration Now he's rendered in oils never ages: he's the sagest when his passions on the boil Gainer was a special lad a product of his portrait dad Spawned in labs and raised to serve his father's word...
He will only work that shlong if Pete Seeger's on He can only reach heaven if Pete's turned to eleven The only way to pull his levers is to spin cuts by the Weavers Not Woody, nor Arlo nor Bobby, or Joan But just Pete, singing "This Land..." Can make Gainer groan
When I was at prep school I had a whole bunk to myself like a lonely monk by myself 'cept for shower days when I'd run through the spray and howls of upperclassmen thugs with snapping towels singing: "Where didja get those thighs my lad Where didja get those thighs? With grease that seeps from an oily deep Like Frankenstein, we'll drive you far away!" There are still times when all I do is moan When wrapping my thighs at our country home Muffy goes for a walk - she knows to give me some space When I have to slip and slide in the Grease of my thighs Grease of my grease of my Thighs
Whada I gotta do to put you in a brisket party? It's a way to brush off shame It's the flex of the pubis Like a pierogi with moving parts You'll never get the stretch marks outta your thumbs You'll never get the smell out of your tongue Wanna taste that shine? Wanna watch men find themselves? Wanna fill your colon with smoke? Why don't you taste the flame? Why don't you suck the blade? Why doncha swing the gavel 'round Give it up Give it up You're running trains on entitlement reforms all day Give it up Give it up Time to swank and drop a load Hoover lines of blow off a row of dinner rolls Whatta I gotta do to getcha in a brisket party?
Trouble! 02:13
Murder! 01:43
Gainer knows the justice'll be alone He's even got a key to Falucci's home Finds him greased and prone Watching passion plays on his phone Exploring Jesus with his thumbs Licking wafer crumbs But then! Three stabs to the back One down two to go Three stabs to the back One down two to go Through the rain drives a hummer to J. Finley's hotel Finds him solo in the lounge reading letters on the couch snorting 'caine through a rolled up program tapping rhythms with his hands Three shots to the dome Two down one to go Three shots to the dome Two down one to go Now it's late and he's oh-so-tired only schemes of dreams in feather beds and scented steams to wash his greasy creams 'Cause killing is a young stallion's game
Maggie takes the hint She can read between the lines She anticipates the snap of the neck and her cries She knows that Gainer's got her marked because whatever Falucci spilled He should have kept it in his sack Should have rubbed it out in private Should have kept that knowledge quiet One death could be an accident but two must prove a fact: that in a room on a wall is a painting with a killer at his beck and call However mad it seems two corpses mean the world is filled with lies and spies and twists and turns and now she knows her only hope is striking first and now she knows her only hope is striking first
Gainer's getting slathered with the steam dreaming of the creams he deems appropriate to love his body when it seems to him the pants he wore before he slung them 'cross a beam were lighter than they should have been. Damn it all! his keys are missing he suddenly recalls them twisting to the bottom of a tub of gin after Senator Mike Rzewski raised concerns about the burn scars he got in 'Nam chafing accidentally against the jagged metal swinging jauntily from Gainer's belt "Have a drink!" shrieked Gainer to his keychain as he flung it'cross the room and returned to the pleasure that was his duty and his due That was seven hours ago and surely those keys remained nestled at the bottom of that silver pool "Damn it all!" he bellows as he drags himself away from steam and dreams to head upstairs for the keys but then to find that few things are just as they seem Maggie follows Kent's grease trail across the floor discovers those keys poorly hidden in a drawer takes a look around and thinks it's safe Opens up the door with a smile on her face Oh, the secrets you will find Oh, the shame you kept inside
Boomwaggle 00:46
He will always be He has always been Boomwaggle always wins Oh, Boomwaggle always wins Always will he be Always has he been Boomwaggle always wins Oh, Boomwaggle always wins


released July 21, 2016

Joe White - Music/Lyrics/Words/Recording/Mixing
Emma Meltzer - Narration/Vocals
Tim Race - Mastering (Thump Studios)



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Joseph White Brooklyn, New York

Joseph White is a composer and performer in Brooklyn.
Contact: joewhitenoise@gmail.com

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