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26 Jan 98

By Paul Ford

Bad Alternative Song Lyrics

Subway Diary Bad Poetry: Alternative Pop Lyrics

Song: She
Performed by: Wide Asleep
Written by: Keith Krzinsky

It's three AM
Everyone else is out celebrating Ramadan
I'm alone and drunk and smell atrocious
Like ham wrapped in socks
She comes over.
She is like lots of stuff.
Even more.

How come?
How come?
Yeah, how come?
(Arching guitar solo).

When I drive out to the dock.
Near Palmyra, Pennsylvania,
Outside of Hershey.
She is in the pond.
Her parents are coming back.

Maybe?
Maybe?
No? Why?
(Arching vibraphone solo).

When will you wake up?
She will ruin me.
Yeah, she will, me, yeah, ruin.
It's three am in the afternoon,
And we're sinking
And kind of soggy.
Look out, we're sinking, maybe,
Look out, we're sinking, maybe,
Look out, we're sinking, maybe,
Look out, we're sinking, maybe,
Look out, we're sinking, maybe,
Look out, we're sinking, maybe,
Look out, we're sinking, maybe,
Look out, we're sinking, maybe,
Look out, we're sinking, maybe,
(Repeat 130 times, becoming progressively more hysterical)
B-I-N-G-O
I-N-G-O
N-G-O
G-O
O
Look out. We are, are, sinking, sinking, maybe.
She is.

---

Song: Awfully Forgotten
Performed by: Heave
Written by: Andreana Binalish

When I felt certain you forgot me,
I crawled inside your mailbox,
And took a great big dump.
Try to forget that!

You ask: why does she feel so pu-gil-ist-ic?
I am just a girl, but boy am I angry,
Boy am I angry, but I am just a girl.
And my name is not Jill.

I knew you'd found someone else,
So I went to your job,
I urinated in your coffee cup,
To make you spit me out again.

You ask: why does she feel so surely hostile?
I am just a girl, but boy am I angry,
Boy am I angry, but I am just a girl.
And my name is not Shirley.

I saw you with an ai-ai,
That's a kind of little monkey.
So I knifed your tires.
Where did you take my record deal?

---

Song: Train
Performed by: Cold Horse
Written by: Ygeni Lewis

I have come to wait
It arrives and I'm waiting.
The train.

Aim for your anger.
Rain for your anger.
Cranes for your anger.
Clams for your anger.
I came all over the breakfront.
My God, where is the Pledge?
Company is coming.
Company is coming.

The diplomats are barking.
Neon filth degradation. Festering whistling.
We will wait for my cheerful bird-watching nephew
To arrive in the rickshaw of doom.

The needle in the mammary gland of the veined television.
Argh! Humble slide trombone misery balloon cosmic stumbling.
Tomorrow will come with exhausted pornographic hooting.
The engine of coldness will say to the forgivers:
Toot! Toot! Toot!

They stand on the hill above the lights
And ask for the clouds to deliver
Really big birds with giant clavicles.
I will abuse and destroy you.
I will abuse and destroy you.
Because my name is Norman Spinella, and I live at 325 Maple Street.

Zip Code 13812.