Street Television

He’s a walkin down the street
Surveyin’ all meat
His wife’s got leather
Wrapped around her feet
He’s smokin cigarettes
Pinchin’ nymphets
Sneerin at the faggots
In their black leather jackets
They’re all pretty gay
Like John Gay, Gay Talese
Gahan Wilson, John Gacy
There’s a real queen
Like Ellery Queen, yeah ha ha ha ha
Set him up behind glass
That faggot man
Exhibit ten, and tag it, man

Jesus told the boss
While hangin on the cross
That a sandwich is a sandwich
But a manwich is a manwich
Dentyne, preteen, listerine, visine
Anacin, allerin, aspirin, pound it in
Take the stuff from Ti-De-Bowl
And stuff it in a Tylenol
Don’t matter if
Some heart goes splatter
Low tide, high tide
Improved tide, cyanide

Johnny come lately, stately
Looking for a back-door whore to bore
Through a perforated screen door,
He won’t wine or dine her, ocean line her,
In return for a minute of sin
Her black leather pants won’t fix his dinner
But for a well-placed fifty dollar bill
She’ll take him upstairs and make him spill
In violencem, come come ugh, don’t you kill
The silence, nothing said about the pill.

In a matter of minutes I could get you arrested
For the transaction you’ve suggested
I could jail you, have you labeled a sinner
Unless you care to dance at a rich man’s dinner.
Can’t buy me love? Then forget about love.
I’ll kiss my money, I’ll grope it, poke it, stroke it
Then I’ll fuck my money fuck my money fuck my money

Halloween can be the scene of crazy things to do
You can dress up like an Orthodox Jew
You say that’s been done, try something bigger
Get a paid position as a kitchen nigger
There’s a man whose face caught fire
His burned-up chest a funeral pyre
He’s walkin’ this a way, he looks dejected
Don’t talk to him—you’ll get infected
Stick yer balls into Pretty Polly, fa la la la
Nuke the gay whales for Jesus ha ha ha

Stadium, palladium 90 in the shade
Kill your boredom in a video arcade
Go ahead and disagree but you better shout
You’ll need more than just a walkman to tune me out
Compution, pollution get your microchip fix
When your cord gets cut, you’ll be pickin up sticks
So hypnotize yourself, like a shell-shock mole
Before too long you will bury your soul

And he’s a walkin down the street
Surveyin all the meat
His wife’s got leather wrapped around her feet
He’s smokin cigarettes, pinchin nymphets
Life and death in his every breath
Life and death in his every breath

(lyrics: Dan Bern)

This song appears on: