Are The Residents Home?

"Drinks all around?" asked the drunkard,
Steeped on his spirit and perched like a crow,
On edge of the stool, in bleary-eyed reverie,
He smiled like a scarecrow and smelled like a fool,
"Mister, mister, buy all ‘round."

Human, human, all too human,
Moving, moving through the dance,
Step to step, for note to note, slurred,
Splattered on the wall: red, white, and blue,
Cracked teeth behind white lips, under red eye,
Looming overhead, the birds will feed,
The birds will feed and eat us dry, deceived.

"Barkeep master, lord of alcoholic disaster,
Show me how to mix the recipe for love,
Tell me all the secrets of the free, white dove,"
Sang the poet, inebriated on words and wine,
Teetering precariously on his seat of flame,
Never anchored long onto anything.

Playing violins in rows of brass,
Orchestra conducted by the hands of an angel,
Timed, timed, timed by the fine grind,
Click, click goes the metronome, another beat,
Two-four signature in C-major, they say,
Watch where you let your children play,
Because nobody said the streets were safe,
Now soars the trumpets, then drop the oboe . . .

"Fell to murder, came to sin, all the story of my kin,
Told by ravens, lamented by men, even I cry,
Now and then, but all is quiet, inside this riot,
Inside this head, the buzzing is unbearable,
So pour me another: pour me three,
Two pints of vodka and gin, and here's to me."

Jack the Ripper was a Saint in some eyes,
Cleaned the streets and rid the world of rabble,
Whores and beggars, so good riddance,
By a knife, by the law, by the bye,
Who cares that saw?

Machines of circuitry snap and die,
No sanity left to run the wires,
So break the motherboard,
Replace the daughter,
And start again.

"They told me it was a sure thing," cried the jester,
Village idiots have no place in this modern city,
But there's always a position for ridicule,
"They swore it would pay-off tenfold," cried the dupe,
Suckers by the dozen, losers in truckloads,
The city is a cesspool of callous concrete, it's written,
Brick by brick, it'll grin and turn the trick,
Drip the soul out of each and every citizen,
This is one nation, one radio station, tuned-out,
Turned-down, news at eleven, the clown is dead,
Found two tequilas up and one brain short,
Forcibly, picturesquely, gruesomely, ejected by gunshot.

Trill of the trumpets greet the green, salad days,
Stride on the floor is upbeat more so than ever before,
And the men are all dressed to the nine, the women look so fine,
Their bodices laced high and legs that reach the sky,
Children on the side, sipping their punch, kicking their feet,
It's time to start the last dance of the Red Masque,
Homecoming Day, come on, let's celebrate.

Chorus of voices, eloquent and relevant,
Reminiscent of medieval modality, the critic says,
"A bit too novel, still quaint in the ancestral sound,"
He sleeps in the gutter, though, and drinks of the devil,
Later that same night, he nodded his head non-stop,
Mumbling to himself, "Bach is dead, Bach is dead,
Bach is dead."

(The Residents, in the corner, shrug.)