A Most Disgusting Song lyrics

I've played every kind of gig

there is to play now.

I've played faggot bars,

hooker bars, motorcycle funerals,

in opera houses, concert halls,

halfway houses.

Well I found that

in all these places that I've played,

all the people that I've played for

are the same people.

So if you'll listen,

maybe you'll see someone

you know in this song.

A most disgusting song.

The local diddy-bop pimp comes in,

acting limp he sits down with a grin

next to a girl that has never been chased.

The bartender wipes a smile off his face.

The delegates cross the floor,

curtsy and promenade through the doors,

and slowly the evening begins.

And there's Jimmy "Bad Luck" Butts

who's just crazy about

them East Lafayette weekend sluts.

Talking is the lawyer in crumpled up shirt,

and everyone's drinking the detergents

that cannot remove their hurts.

While the Mafia provides your drugs,

your government will provide the shrugs,

and your national guard will supply the slugs,

so they sit all satisfied.

And there's old playboy Ralph

who's always been shorter than himself.

And there's a man with his chin in his hand,

who knows more than he'll ever understand.

Yeah, every night it's the same old thing:

Getting high, getting drunk, getting horny,

at the Inn-Between, again.

And there's the bearded schoolboy

with the wooden eyes

who at every scented skirt

whispers up and sighs.

And there's a teacher

that will kiss you in French,

who could never give love,

could only fearfully clench.

Yeah people,

every night it's the same old thing:

Getting pacified, ossified,

affectionate at Mr. Flood's party, again.

And there's the militant

with his store-bought soul.

There's someone here

who's almost a virgin, I've been told.

And there's Linda glass-made

who speaks of the past,

who genuflects, salutes,

signs the cross and stands at half mast

Yeah, they're all here:

The tiny Tims and the Uncle Toms,

redheads, brunettes, brownettes

and the dyed haired blondes,

who talk to dogs, chase broads

and have hopes of being mobbed,

who mislay their dreams

and later claim that they were robbed.

And every night it's going to be the same old thing:

Getting high, getting drunk, getting horny --

Lost, even, at Martha's Vineyard, again.