By John Cooper Clarke
Thirty-six hours in the mystery chair,
Thirty-six hours in the quizzical glare
Of the naked lights and the visible hardware.
Another bloke is leaving in a wheelchair.
Here come the punchline:
Steel shoes on the stone cold floor,
I hear the screws screaming in the corridor,
The bad news and the slamming of the door,
The what did I dos and the what am I here fors?
Shades of doubt fall deeper than the slagmine.
Hard cheese and a chest complaint,
One man sneezes, another two faint,
Suffering Jesus, but this ain't my venue.
The man through the mesh says "Time to crash."
The creeping flesh of the nervous rash,
The last man to make a dash is on the menu.
Here's the boss with a mouth full of emeralds,
A Maltese Cross and a pocketful of chemicals
(Jack Frost snapping at the genitals).
What's my cop gets a visit from the General,
Rule out subsection name.
The killer gorilla with the perspex hat
Says "I say so", and that's that.
Take out the dog, bring back the cat.
Scrape out the cafeteria racks.
Stab the rabbit, feed the swine.
Time flies, slides down the walls,
Part of me days, under my overalls,
I close my eyes and a woman calls
>From a nightmare.
The chronic breath of the dead collides
With the rattle of the waste disposal slides.
No flowers for the man who died
In the bomb scare.
He's in the Frigidaire.
Freezing in these paper jeans,
Standing stiff in a dead man's dream.
Tobacco barons and the closet queen,
Walk on the walls, wanking their fleas.
Shave, shit, a shower and a shoeshine.
Everybody looks like Ernest Borgnine.
Thirty-six hours on the battery farm,
A blindfold and a broken arm,
I got the cold shoulder sleeping in the barn,
Whose barn? What barn? Their barn.
The old soldier in his old wheelchair.
Lift that weight, drag that woodbine.
"Lights out, mate, sackerooney time".