What we once thought we had we didn't, and what we
have now will never be that way again So we call
upon the author to explain


Our myxomatoid kids spraddle the streets, we've
shunned them from the greasy-grind The poor little

things, they look so sad and old as they mount us
from behind I ask them to desist and to refrain
And then we call upon the author to explain


Rosary clutched in his hand, he died with tubes up
his nose And a cabal of angels with finger cymbals

chanted his name in code We shook our fists at the
punishing rain And we call upon the author to explain


He said everything is messed up around here,
everything is b!@#^ and jejune There is a
planetary conspiracy against the likes of you and

me in this idiot constituency of the moon Well, he
knew exactly who to blame And we call upon the
author to explain


Prolix! Prolix! Nothing a pair of scissors can't
fix! Prolix! Prolix! Nothing a pair of scissors can't fix!


Well, I go guruing down the street, young people
gather round my feet Ask me things, but I don'r

know where to start They ignite the power-trail
ssstraight to my father's heart And once again I
call upon the author to explain


We call upon the author to explain


Who is this great burdensome slavering dog-thing
that mediocres my every thought? I feel like a
vacuum cleaner, a complete sucker, it's $#&@ed up

and he is a $#&@er But what an enormous and
encyclopaedic brain I call upon the author to explain


Oh rampant discrimination, mass poverty, third
world debt, infectious diseease Global inequality
and deepening socio-economic divisions Well, it

does in your brain And we call upon the author to explain

Now hang on, my friend Doug is tapping on the

window (Hey Doug, how you been?) Brings me back a
book on holocaust poetry complete with pictures
Then tells me to get ready for the rain And we

call upon the author to explain

I say prolix! Prolix! Something a pair of scissors can fix


Bukowski was a jerk! Berryman was best! He wrote
like wet papier mache, went the Heming-way weirdly

on wings and with maximum pain We call upon the
author to explain


Down in my bolthole I see they've published
another volume of unreconstructed rubbish "The
waves, the waves were soldiers moving". Well,

thank you, thank you, thank you And again I call
upon the author to explain Yeah, we call upon the
author to explain


Prolix! Prolix! there's nothing a pair of scissors can't fix!