June 23rd, 2014
|02:03 pm - Lyricspam of the now.|
Seems that lately I've been listening to dumb amounts of piano-toting British comediennes. Mostly Fascinating Aïda who are utterly amazing - but through related videos I found Victoria Wood and this lovely little song:
I'm terribly torn
About being born
I mean, what is the whole thing about?
"Plop", out you come
(Very near someone's bum)
It can't have been properly thought out!
It depends on one sperm
Knowing which way to squirm
In its version of swimming the channel
I'd have preferred
To hatch out like a bird...
Or been grown on a piece of damp flannel.
But just to arrive
And be told you're alive
Wait ten years for a nice cup of tea
To be suddenly hurled
right into the world
It all seems quite barmy to me!
Isn't it a pity
Life was planned by a committee
While the clever ones have popped out to the lav?
This is my theory
(Though it isn't very cheery)
Our existence is a harsh one,
Try explaining to a Martian,
What a tricky conversation you would have -
And I'm not dense
It makes no sense!
We're only here 'cause an egg meets a sperm and then grows blobs on
Tell me there's more to it than that, I'll just go (pff) with knobs on.
One thing that gets me seething
Is all this bloody "breathing"
No sooner breathing out than breathing in.
It's very tiring
(and there's burping and perspiring!)
Another source of loathing
Is the need for wearing clothing
When some of us look better in our skin
And no matter how well-bought
We all look stupid in a coat!
If we didn't have hair
We could be brushless and be combless
If we were bald
Our dandruff would be permanently homeless!
Bum to the world, the whole thing stinks
I never asked to come
My reasoned, sane, thought-out response
Is 'bum, bum, bum'.
Another large misgiving
Is this urge to keep on living
And the way we were designed to run on food
And this doesn't justify
The individual fruit pie.
And there's never any question
of actual digestion
'til it's been divvied-out and shuffled-in and chewed -
I'd be happy to invest in
A little portable intestine!
I hate meals out,
All that "please wait here to be seated...
... your food is being sprayed with germs,
spat on and reheated!"
And the pinnacle, the steeple,
Is the hell of other people
And the stupid things they have and say and do
like smoking cigarettes
or videoing their pets.
People with a pager
Prats who voted for John Major
People with a gas-fired barbeque
Women using Hermesetas
Or showing you photos of their fetus!
And worst of all
(And I'll only ever say this once)
Is any Brit
With a house in bloody Provence!
Bum to the world, I won't give in
I raise a cheery thumb
And on mature reflection,
I say 'bum, bum, bum'.
Then, of course, there's dying -
Well, they couldn't have been trying,
Why not find a way to keep us all alive?
There's Heaven, I suppose
But no one really knows!
No doubt, Heaven would be raining
"Sorry, closed for staff retraining
Please come back in 1995
Please use the stairs
Pearly lift closed for repairs!"
When we get there, we'll be a mite depressed
To find a Benetton, A Little Chef and, no doubt, a bloody NatWest!
Bum to the world, let's not be glum
Each bum can shine a light
And all that's left for me to say
Is thank you very much, good night!