Chutney
In the park he pisses on the daisies.
On the bus he shits himself.
He wipes his nose on his sleeve.
His grey trench coat is full of fleas.
His name is Chutney.
He’s the real McCoy.
He’s not a crusty
Whispering for spare change.
He’s bared from the Wetherspoons chain.
Along with the Irish.
But he’ll be back again.
He can smoke a hundred Woodbines
Or Capstan Full Strength a day.
He can drink a gallon of meths
And still stand up in a fight.
His name is Chutney.
He’s the real McCoy.
He’s not a crusty
Whispering for spare change.
He’s bared from the Wetherspoon’s chain.
Along with the Irish.
But he’ll be back again.
He busks with a one-string mandolin
He found in a skip.
He goes down the Sally Army
For a cup of tea and some jip.
His name is Chutney.
He’s the real McCoy.
He’s not a crusty
Whispering for spare change.
He’s bared from the Wetherspoon's chain.
Along with the Irish.
But he’ll be back again.
Chick Career
My body is an Adonis.
I have no need for gym.
It scythes through water
As I swim.
The girls I their bikini’s
Sigh and lust.
Their bosoms heave.
Their bosoms do thrust.
Chick Career
I have my gold card.
My red machine.
A white tuxedo.
And black tie mean.
I dye my hair in manly brown.
The girls turn jelly
When I hit town.
Chick career,
My length is long.
My girth is wide.
It’s hard to hate me
No matter how you try.
I pity those
Whose wives that nag.
When I have five
In my bed.
Chick career.
This will be over
Oh one day this will be over.
Where men once walked seeds will grow.
Oh the moss it moves so slowly.
But over our ideas it shall go.
We are here for the shortest time.
A footnote in the book of Earth.
Our waste and need of power.
Means nothing to the sea and sun.
Charlie please don’t cry.
We reap what we sow.
Things will grow
After we die
Dance off the buliding
I want to dance on the hill
With a loaf of bread
And some chicken wings
To the music of Grace Jones.
I want to dance off the building.
I love the lady in rags.
But where is he now?
No longer Top of the Pops.
No longer Trad Dad.
I want to dance off the building.
The little dog gets around.
He searches every thing.
He pulled his pants down in the market.
And the orange faces turned red.
I want to dance off the building
I wish I was Eno
And so begins another day of broken hardship.
Another day of famine my guts rubble the cry.
I envy the screaming chip kids who gorge themselves.
I wish I was Eno.
I wish I was Eno.
I sleep under the arches with Flannigan and Allen.
The chorus girls and captains of bent cricket scores.
The cheap gin circles around and around.
I wish I was Eno.
I wish I was Eno.
If I could dig her up I could get her dentures.
Amongst hair, skin and bony bits.
Then I could eat the apples sent by God.
I wish I was Eno.
I wish I was Eno.
His head is an onion, His nose a sausage.
His breaches are made of corn beef with a taste of pesto.
If he was a meal he would be a beggars banquet.
I wish I was Eno.
I wish I was Eno.
Harry's Lament
How did I get here so fast?
Long, long.
Time, time.
By silver hearse.
I fall asleep on the couch.
And then wake lonely and afraid of the dark.
Last weeks milk is left on the doorstep.
Thickly curdled and smelling of yellow.
No one knows I’m here for sure.
How did I get here so fast?
Long, long.
Time, time.
By silver hearse.
In my youth I was sweetness and light.
Tee Pee valley was my home
There was a girl.
Painted lips, painted eyes
Who held a gong in mid air?
Now I cant remember my last name.
But now I can remember.
Now I can remember.
How did I get here so fast?
Long, long.
Time, time.
By silver hearse.
Mothballs, knitting and Radio Two.
Sing something filthy as days go by
With digestives and a mug of coco if I’m lucky.
I don’t care.
I’ll be dead soon.
Like Grocer Jack.
The garden fence will fall with rot.
The roof will sag.
The next generation will develop.
Some one else will be cool.
Some one else will be cruel.
They’ll build a wind generator on my grave
And still be thrown into darkness.
Hear me.
My name is Harry.
I use to cut the grass.
There goes my death rattle.
I think I am dead.
How did I get here so fast?
Long, long.
Time, time.
By silver hearse.
Belgium
Oui.
Are you Belgian?
I am Belgian.
I like Belgium.
Oui.
I like boule.
Je t’aime boule.
Oui I am Belgian.
Are you Belgian?
Frites, frites, frites, frites.
Give me frites.
Are you Belgian?
I think not.
Where are you from?
Are you Belgian?
I think not.
Frites, frites, frites
Give me frites.
Give me frites.
Give me frites.
Give me my frites.
Oui, oui,
Where are you from, Monsieur?
You do not look like you’re from around here.
Where?
Tell me.
Tell me where you are from.
Is it Belgium?
Belgium.
Belgium.
I think not.
Hippo's paddling pool
The rusty wheel.
The garden spring.
The rotting sleepers.
The Woolsey decay’s.
Black bin liners
Of beetles and earwig’s.
There is empty sky.
There is empty land.
Rain has made it wet
Like a Hippos paddling pool.
The houses of the soft.
The sheds of the holy.
The pylons over head.
Drip like honeydew.
The ants scuttle in circles.
Rectangles and oblongs.
There is empty sky.
There is empty land.
Rain has made it wet.
Like a Hippos paddling pool.
The highway mice chortle.
The highway mice skree.
They live on corn
Millet and bread.
See them climb
Like gymnastic geese.
There is empty sky.
There is empty land.
Rain has made it wet.
Like a Hippos paddling pool.
Phyliss
I loved the tins of paint from 1969.
Green and oozing.
Green like lush.
And I loved the way they sat upon the table.
And I loved the way they said “Phyllis”
I loved the rocking horse all broken.
The way he neighed and brayed.
And I loved the way he said “Phyllis.
I fell in love with the rusty wheelbarrow.
The way it stayed out in the rain.
And I fell in love with its flowerpots.
And I fell in love with the way it said “Phyllis”.
Now she comes in her red dress.
Down the spiral stairs.
Now here she comes in her red dress.
She is Phyllis.
Jamie's Torch
Roald Dahl hides in the lamppost.
The lamppost that breaks the night,
Will there be a light from Jamie’s torch?
Will the battery’s so no to Jamie’s torch.?
Now Raul Dahl hides in the cellar.
In a cardboard box under the stairs.
He loves the cold and hates the working class.
Will there be a light from Jamie’s torch?
They’ll take you home
You lost your turn.
You turned away.
A fork in the road.
And now you’re lost.
They’ll take you home.
They’ll take you home.
In time for tea.
They’ll take you home.
Trust in them.
They live under ground.
Or above the sea.
They shine like jewels
They shine like sand.
They’ll take you home.
They’ll take you home.
In time for tea.
They’ll take you home.
Trust in them.
They were lost like you.
No one to turn to.
Now they have learnt
The signs that show the way.
They’ll take you home.
They’ll take you home.
In time for tea.
They’ll take you home.
Trust in them.
Too much time
I want this day to be over.
There’s too much time.
You've heard all the hype, now hear the real thing. Adrian Stout of the Tiger Lillies meets
Sexton Ming, godfather of British Outsider Music. A ball-blistering album. Step away, girls. You may get pregnant. With tracks like "Chick Career", "Phyllis" and "Hippo's paddling pool", no wonder you'll like it.
12 twisted tales of tramps, childhood fear, lust and death.
Available from the
RIM RECORDS shop, £10 + p&p. Visit the shop to buy and hear songs from the cd.
*This is NOT a Tiger Lillies album.
Credits:
Adrian Stout; Bass, Keyboards, Saw, Percussion, Vocals
Sexton Ming: Guitars, Vocals
Nigel Burch: Banjolele, Vocals
Martin Headly: Vocals
Georgia Schaller: Vocals
Dylan Bates: Violin
Adrian Huge: Drums
All Songs Ming/Stout except Belgium Stout
