Joined: 19 Nov 2003 Posts: 9465 Location: living in a powderkeg and giving off sparks
Posted: Mon Oct 20, 2008 9:40 am Post subject:
djthundercleese wrote:
your mom is an artist, a rococo artist, ive seen her stuff, its pretty good, i think im talking about sex.
Nah, you're talking about interior design. If you wanted to talk about sex you should have said something like "I did the sex to your mom last night, she was pretty good, I definitely am talking about sex". That way there's no ambiguity - unlike the rococo style, whose overly abstract forms derived from natural forms (rather than the purely mathematical of High Modern, for example) are totally ambiguous.
Joined: 06 Nov 2003 Posts: 4140 Location: Brooknam
Posted: Thu Oct 23, 2008 1:48 pm Post subject:
Um yeah, let us get back to The Boss. Your mom being good at sex is great, don't get me wrong, but unless she's a cumguzzler with gills she's not nearly as awesome as Bruce Springsteen.
Hey little girl is your daddy home
Did he go away and leave you all alone
I got a bad desire
I'm on fire
Tell me now baby is he good to you
Can he do to you the things that I do
I can take you higher
I'm on fire
Sometimes it's like someone took a knife baby
edgy and dull and cut a six-inch valley
through the middle of my soul
At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet
and a freight train running through the
middle of my head
Only you can cool my desire
I'm on fire
Joined: 19 Nov 2003 Posts: 9465 Location: living in a powderkeg and giving off sparks
Posted: Thu Oct 23, 2008 2:45 pm Post subject:
Well, they blew up the chicken man in philly last night
Now, they blew up his house, too
Down on the boardwalk theyre gettin ready for a fight
Gonna see what them racket boys can do
Now, theres trouble bustin in from outta state
And the d.a. cant get no relief
Gonna be a rumble out on the promenade
And the gamblin commissions hangin on by the skin of his teeth
Well now, evrything dies, baby, thats a fact
But maybe evrything that dies someday comes back
Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty
And meet me tonight in atlantic city
Well, I got a job and tried to put my money away
But I got debts that no honest man can pay
So I drew what I had from the central trust
And I bought us two tickets on that coast city bus
Now, baby, evrything dies, honey, thats a fact...
Now our luck may have died and our love may be cold
But with you forever Ill stay
Were goin out where the sands turnin to gold
Put on your stockins baby, `cause the nights getting cold
And maybe evrything dies, baby, thats a fact
But maybe evrything that dies someday comes back
Now, I been lookin for a job, but its hard to find
Down here its just winners and losers and dont
Get caught on the wrong side of that line
Well, Im tired of comin out on the losin end
So, honey, last night I met this guy and Im gonna
Do a little favor for him
Well, I guess everything dies, baby, thats a fact...
Joined: 15 May 2003 Posts: 7437 Location: The great big festering neon distraction.
Posted: Thu Oct 23, 2008 5:00 pm Post subject:
I used to hate the fucker (still not a huge fan of most of his 90's catalog), until I was brainwashed by countless basement benders out in Woodbridge....
The rangers had a homecoming in harlem late last night
And the magic rat drove his sleek machine over the jersey state line
Barefoot girl sitting on the hood of a dodge
Drinking warm beer in the soft summer rain
The rat pulls into town rolls up his pants
Together they take a stab at romance and disappear down flamingo lane
Well the maximum lawman run down flamingo chasing the rat and the barefoot
Girl
And the kids round here look just like shadows always quiet, holding hands
From the churches to the jails tonight all is silence in the world
As we take our stand down in jungleland
The midnight gangs assembled and picked a rendezvous for the night
Theyll meet `neath that giant exxon sign that brings this fair city light
Man theres an opera out on the turnpike
Theres a ballet being fought out in the alley
Until the local cops, cherry tops, rips this holy night
The streets alive as secret debts are paid
Contacts made, they vanished unseen
Kids flash guitars just like switch-blades hustling for the record machine
The hungry and the hunted explode into rocknroll bands
That face off against each other out in the street down in jungleland
In the parking lot the visionaries dress in the latest rage
Inside the backstreet girls are dancing to the records that the d.j. plays
Lonely-hearted lovers struggle in dark corners
Desperate as the night moves on, just a look and a whisper, and theyre gone
Beneath the city two hearts beat
Soul engines running through a night so tender in a bedroom locked
In whispers of soft refusal and then surrender in the tunnels uptown
The rats own dream guns him down as shots echo down them hallways in the
Night
No one watches when the ambulance pulls away
Or as the girl shuts out the bedroom light
Outside the streets on fire in a real death waltz
Between flesh and whats fantasy and the poets down here
Dont write nothing at all, they just stand back and let it all be
And in the quick of the night they reach for their moment
And try to make an honest stand but they wind up wounded, not even dead
Tonight in jungleland
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