Afraid To Try I bought my love a little Boston Whaler. I thought some time embarked might cure what ailed her. I spent all of our savings in a mere half hour On that gosh-darned thing, and boy, was she sour. We took it out one lazy afternoon. It was three months hence, and I chewed the moon. Finally, this gosh-darned albatross Would bat a wing, I thought. As we neared the launch, of course, the weather turned; Had I read the marine forecast, I would have learned That the Goddamned drink would churn that day, That the bastard squalls would have their way. She said, "Come back to me when you have a clue, When the coffer's full and the sky is blue. 'Til then, mark me, I'm gone." I am a man who's afraid to try. Don't ask me, I don't know why. Why do you look so unsurprised As you reach forth now to dry my eyes?

Foot Stuff When we met, you was lookin' for blood. You was buzzin' 'round me like skeeters 'round some leg meat. When we met, you was lookin' for blood In that wild November heat. So, I took you up to ol' Tau Bay, Where I fed you something neat, and Then I took you down to ol' Jan's house, Where I marvelled at your feet. I love you more than you'll ever know. As long as the spider lily grows, I will have thy dainty toes In holy matrimoly, In holy matrimoly. Be unashamed.

Gear List The uke is a Samick, bought in Singapore. The guitar is a Squier, bought in San Diego. The amp is a Vox, bought in Texas City. The picks are my fingers, and they were free. They were free. They were free. This shit don't rhyme. This shit don't rhyme. This shit don't rhyme. Is that a crime? When shit don't rhyme, When shit don't rhyme, When shit don't rhyme, Is that a crime? The synth is an U-he, bought from Mister Heckmann. The DAW is an Ableton that came with an interface. The drums are BFD, the drums are BFD, The drums are BFD, the drums are BFD Eco. That is my meager gear list. I hope y'all all enjoy the show. That is my meager gear list, And now I guess it's time to go.

I Speak Not In Jest I speak not in jest, I am so impressed By the way your body handles psychic trauma. You are so young and healthy and fit for a selfie, Yet inside is a bleedin' pain-o-rama. Your eyes hurt, your knees hurt, Your back hurts, your sneeze hurts, Mysterious pains all around. Your feet hurt, your ears hurt, Your hair hurts, your tears hurt, Mysterious owies abound. When I get upset, I feel vacant and numb And queue up Chopin or some shit; When you get upset, yes, the tears, they might come, But you won't make a day of it. You don't feel emotion like we do. You don't feel emotion like we do. Your emotive faculties are A bit underdeveloped, And we can't say we envy you. Your eyes hurt, your knees hurt, Your back hurts, your sneeze hurts, Mysterious pains all around. Your feet hurt, your ears hurt, Your hair hurts, your tears hurt, Mysterious owies abound. Sublimation? Is that what it's called? Come back to me when you've Got some feels, lunchmeat. Peace out, yo. Word to your mother. I kid, but really, I suspect a few words with her Would clarify things. Did she do this to you? Did she? It's too bad you can't talk to her anymore; As I've said, you have my deepest sympathy. What's that? Oh, yes, I agree. It's time we left you alone and Returned to our old, worn-out, funked-up place Of sentimental decadence. What's that? Oh, yes, I agree, I am a fucking clown. Goodnight, my love.

Let's Move To San Diego Let's move to San Diego. Let's move to San Diego. The scenery's fine and the climate fair, And they've got tons of museums there. I hear it's like a different country out there; You can make weird music and people won't care. Let's move to San Diego. Let's move to San Diego. Comic Con is a nerd's best friend. No, we're not nerds, but I'm sure we'll learn. I hear it's like a different country out there; You can wear a mask, and people won't stare. Let's move to San Diego. Let's move to San Diego. It's got a suburb that's called Klantee; Let's steer clear of it, goodness me. I guess no place is perfect, huh? I hear the MFAH is hosting Guernica. Perhaps we'll stay here.

Big In Europe For Urs Lerch and Dachi Kasaia I went to the foodmart To buy a beer, To Star Food Mart, In case that wasn't clear, and I went there on foot because My car was full of scroaches. They crawled forth each night Like a little flotilla, And I loathed the sight Of their tiny sensilla, so I went on foot because My car was full of fucking scroaches. I bolted the door To my grandfather's house, Where no man stirred, Nor did even a louse, and I Headed off in the direction Of the town's oil refineries, Which tastefully illuminated the horizon. They looked to me like the Emerald City, Glowing with promise Of an American middle class. But they did not glow for me. Alack! I'd barely wrangled three bucks' worth Of quarters and dimes, My lot since birth Being one of privation and dearth, and I traveled on foot because My 2002 Mercury Grand Marquis was a Goddamned roach shack, off-limits to me. I donned my mask, and I stepped inside, Still bummed by the state Of my expropriated ride, And I said "excuse me, dear," To the shoeless child standing in front of The beer. To my chagrin, The thing refused to move. It just stood there and grinned, As if it had something to prove, While a fat, unmasked woman I presumed To be its mother Bought lottery tickets nearby. For a moment, I wasn't sure What to do With this smug little nuisance, this burr In my shoe, But I cogitated a bit, And the solution bit my crooked, Arab nose Like a cobra. I turned to the mother and, with a grin that Put her dumpy, dimwitted child's to shame, I asked, "Have you heard? I'm big in Europe. Their obsession with me is Really quite absurd. Have you heard? I'm huge in Europe. Those Continental folk, man, They hang on my every word. I am Camel Eye. I am Camel Eye. I am Camel Eye. I am Camel Eye! I smell like a turd, But I sing like Bill Byrd. I am Camel Eye. Now, step aside." As I carried my Gargantuan bottle of Steel Reserve to the register, the clerk unfurled a Carpet for me, a carpet made of glistening Scroaches. They smelled so sweet! The child, now standing at attention, Sounded a flugelhorn, which then Disintegrated into a writhing mound of Scoaches, engulfing the child's unshod Hooves. The mother continued to scratch her Lottery tickets, which were made of Scroachpaper. "I think we've got a winner Here," she said, and pressed the ticket Seductively into my palm, along with her Four-o-nine. I cashed the ticket for point- Eight-five Euro and then turned to her and Exclaimed "I'm rich, bitch!" She laughed so Hard that scroaches poured from her Fucking mouth. I walked back to my grandfather's house And tried to get drunk. The next day, I changed my name to King Scroach. The following day, I died, belly up, in my Grandfather's kitchen. He cursed my Generation and then placed me in the Trash, making incredibly deft use of his Canes. Elon Musk was on TV, explaining Why poor people did not deserve money. Donald Trump followed with inflated Employment figures. I listened from the Trash and was glad I was fucking dead. This dispatch from Texas City, TX, is for Urs Lerch and Dachi Kasaia, and for all of You who will never know what it's like to be Big in Europe.

Saran Wrap I was nearly twenty. Shocked? Well, you didn't know me then. I met her at high school. We'd been goth together, Eating lunch outside With the other misfits, But had never really talked. Now that high school was over, I guess we were desperate For friends. We had just one. I forget how it happened. That mutual friend was in the room, Laughing, incredulous, As we misused a piece of Saran wrap. Adult Swim was on the TV, I remember somehow. The Saran wrap was not my idea, And it sort of haunts me now. Oh, well. As the sun came up over Bellaire, I knew I was different somehow. Something new was inside me That would calmly refuse to leave, And I cried.