This is one of my favorite songs. https://fnfgo.io
As the grossness of spring lolls its head against the window
As the grossness of spring lolls its bloodied head
Curare! Curare! Curare!
brogue cries from the street
Curare! Curare!
As the grossness of spring rose a tumor balloon to squeak against the window
With the grossness of spring staining into the walls
The chair had been shifted ever so slightly say five feet or two centimeters
The prints of my fingers dusted from doorknobs
A lamp had been dimmed
Some sawdust where a ring had been
Where nice girls were turned into whores
Gardens with fountains where peacocks had strutted
Where dead children were born
The splendor of tigers turning to gold in the desert
Pale meadows of stranded pyramids
Sonny boy such a sonny boy there's a song in the air
Curare! Curare! Curare!
But the fair seniorita doesn't seem to care
Curare! Curare! Curare!
As the grossness of spring lolls its head against the window
As the grossness of spring lolls its bloodied head
I merely got up so slowly
Shuffled across the floor
Closed the door on the landing
descending the stairs dipping into the street
the paralyzed street
Brogue says
"Good afternoon!"
I say
"Good afternoon!"
"Yes, it's a lovely afternoon"
Into pockets unstitching so weighted with pins
Into eyes imploding on mazes of sins
The puddle beneath the cork--
--bobbing on a mild chop that rolled in off the river of Dix and the open water beyond
Brogue says
"I'LL PUNCH A DONKEY IN THE STREETS OF GALWAY!"
Then me
"I'LL PUNCH A DONKEY IN THE STREETS OF GALWAY!"
Brogue
"I'LL PUNCH A DONKEY IN THE STREETS OF GALWAY!"
"I'LL PUNCH A DONKEY IN THE STREETS OF GALWAY!"
Sonny boy such a sonny boy in her voice there's a flaw
Curare! Curare! Curare!
Sonny boy bye bye sonny boy e-e-aw and e-e-aw
As the grossness of spring lolls its bloodied head
Curare! Curare! Curare!
brogue cries from the street
Curare! Curare!
As the grossness of spring rose a tumor balloon to squeak against the window
With the grossness of spring staining into the walls
The chair had been shifted ever so slightly say five feet or two centimeters
The prints of my fingers dusted from doorknobs
A lamp had been dimmed
Some sawdust where a ring had been
Where nice girls were turned into whores
Gardens with fountains where peacocks had strutted
Where dead children were born
The splendor of tigers turning to gold in the desert
Pale meadows of stranded pyramids
Sonny boy such a sonny boy there's a song in the air
Curare! Curare! Curare!
But the fair seniorita doesn't seem to care
Curare! Curare! Curare!
As the grossness of spring lolls its head against the window
As the grossness of spring lolls its bloodied head
I merely got up so slowly
Shuffled across the floor
Closed the door on the landing
descending the stairs dipping into the street
the paralyzed street
Brogue says
"Good afternoon!"
I say
"Good afternoon!"
"Yes, it's a lovely afternoon"
Into pockets unstitching so weighted with pins
Into eyes imploding on mazes of sins
The puddle beneath the cork--
--bobbing on a mild chop that rolled in off the river of Dix and the open water beyond
Brogue says
"I'LL PUNCH A DONKEY IN THE STREETS OF GALWAY!"
Then me
"I'LL PUNCH A DONKEY IN THE STREETS OF GALWAY!"
Brogue
"I'LL PUNCH A DONKEY IN THE STREETS OF GALWAY!"
"I'LL PUNCH A DONKEY IN THE STREETS OF GALWAY!"
Sonny boy such a sonny boy in her voice there's a flaw
Curare! Curare! Curare!
Sonny boy bye bye sonny boy e-e-aw and e-e-aw
Lyrics submitted by oswaldtherabbit
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"For many centuries the exact content of curare remained a mystery to Western observers; not until 1800 did Alexander Von Humboldt witness and document the preparation of curare by the Indians from the Orinco River. In 1814, an explorer named Charles Waterton injected a donkey with curare. Within ten minutes, the donkey appeared dead. Waterton cut a small hole in her throat and inserted a pair of bellows, then pumped to inflate the lungs. The donkey held her head up and looked around. Waterton continued artificial respiration for two hours until the effects of curare had worn off. Curare was found to block the transmission of nerve impulses to muscle, including the diaphragm muscle, which controls breathing."
@Gestfala The donkey's throat being punctured could be the key to those last lines: "Sonny boy, such a sonny boy, in her voice there's a flaw Curare!" I think if I had a hole cut in my throat, there'd be a flaw in my voice, too.
I'm doing my first listen to this album ever. So far, this is the scariest song...those donkey noises just make me uneasy. Awesome song though.
Horror
That's what I feel when I hear the Donkey instrumental horn part. It freaks me out. What an accomplishment as a song!
This is going on my Halloween mix.
Props to any who's heard this Album. It's a changeling listen.
"The already infamous line from “Jolson And Jones” - “I’LL PUNCH A DONKEY IN THE STREETS OF GALWAY!” - refers to Allan Jones; not Uncut’s editor, but father of the younger Scott’s matinee idol Jack Jones. Jones père was a classically trained tenor who wound up in Hollywood and became best known for the novelty hit “Donkey Serenade”. Walker’s song has him commiserating with a drunk, paranoid Al Jolson in a ‘40s Vegas that doubles as the suburb of hell set aside for washed-up crooners."
from here: uncut.net/music/uncut/reviews/8759