I'm Gonna Drink that Blood Right Outta Her Neck

I’m gonna drink that blood right outta her neck,

I’m gonna drink that blood right outta her neck,

I’m gonna drink that blood right outta her neck,

And guzzle it down my own.

I’m gonna bite that girl right in her vain,

I’m gonna bite that girl right in her vain,

I’m gonna bite that girl right in her vain,

And listen to her grown.

Oh, don’t try to spit it out.

Slurp it up! Slurp it up!

Bite her mane, dry her vain,

Then, oh BAT, stop that.

Drain her vein and let her shrivel!

Yea, vampire!

I’m gonna suck that blood right outta her neck,

I’m gonna suck that blood right outta her neck,

I’m gonna suck that blood right outta her neck,

And guzzle it down my own.

If the thing don’t understand you.

If you fly on separate wings.

Waste no time. Make a start.

Pull that lid right off your chest.

Push her out of the coffin

And drum her out of your rest.

If you laugh at different funerals.

If you root for different ghouls.

Waste no time. Creep no more.

Show her what the stake is for!

Place it o’re her heart

And drum it through her breast.

Oh, no!          Oh, no!

I’m gonna drink that blood right outta her neck,

I’m gonna drink that blood right outta her neck,

I’m gonna drink that blood right outta her neck,

And guzzle it down my own.

Older Than Egypt

I touch your hand

And your arm falls off.

I pat your back,

You begin to cough.

My eyes look down

At your twisted face,

And I must admit,

With distaste!

Older than Egypt are you.

Paler than toothpaste are you.

Drier than desert sands

Are the shriveled lips you gave me.

Gloomier than graves are you.

Weaker than slaves are you.

Devil, not angel: hell, not Heaven.

Are you to me.

And when you die and decay

Inside my tomb

And fill my coffin up with dust,

Then…

                        Older than Egypt am I.

                        Drier than deserts am I.

                        Witch and Warlock,

                        Mummy and Thing

                        Am I with you.

A Wonderful Wolf

I expect ev’ryone of my crowd

To make fun of my proud

Protestations of hypnotic entrances;

And they’ll say I’m sup’stitious,

A bit naïve to believe any legend

I hear from some wolf in pants.

I’ve been known to share your

Practical conclusion,

Thinking the beast could keep

Its seclusion,

‘Til all of a sudden that moon’s

Fullnesstude

Shown down and hit me smack

In the snude:

That’s how I turned out to be

The hairy young werewolf you see.

I’m as hairy as cotton in August,

All in the matter of one little poof.

No longer a smart little guy with no teeth,

I have become a most wonderful wolf.

I turn at a conventional full moon

From a conventional toe to a hoof.

And you will note, there is hair on my throat,

When I turn to that wonderful wolf.

I’m as gruff and as mean as a crazy loot,

A ghoul coming out.

I am sharp-toothed with a crock’dile grin,

Drippin’ blood down my chin.

I’m as hairy as cotton in August,

I’m as fast as bats from the roof.

If you’ll excuse the expression I use”

I am turning, am turning, am turning,

Am turning, am turning to a wonderful wolf.

Some Enchanted Graveyard

Some enchanted graveyard,

There may dwell a ghoul;

There may dwell a ghoul

Inside a crumbled tomb.

And therefore you know,

You know even then,

That someday you will scream

Again and again.

In some enchanted graveyard

Something may be laughing.

You may hear it laughing

From in a crumbled tomb,

And night after night,

As strange as it seems,

The sound of laughter

Will echo your screams.

Who can explain it?

Who can tell you why?

Ghouls make you promises;

Believers always die.

Some enchanted graveyard

Where you hear it call you,

When you hear it call you,

From in a crumbled tomb;

Then fly from the scene

And head for your home.

Oh, flee for your life

From this twilight zone.

Once you have met it.

It’ll never let you go.

Once you have met it.

It’ll never let you go.

Hot Roddin' Baby

Key’s turned on.

Tank’s full of gas.

Come on, baby,

We’ll peal out fast.

Hit the starter,

You grab the wheel.

Tires go around,

Hear how they squeal?

A guy pulls up.

He wants to race.

I sped by at

A terrific pace.

One girl got scared.

She said slow down.

I let her walk

On back to town.

Down the highway,

Hundred and ten.

Cop was looking

Where I had been.

Speeding on down

Route ninety-nine,

Until I saw

A red stop sign.

Brakes didn’t work, smokin’ stover!

I hit the bank and rolled over.

My hot roddin’ baby, no more

Hot roddin’ beneath her soddy cover.

Cycle

I ask you something strange.

Give it a moment’s thought.

Where do we go from hence

And where do we go naught?

Pull down from the sky

The man in the moon.

Place him in a hole

Dug to be his tomb.

Would the ocean flood,

Cover all the land?

Or would the tide go

Shrinking off the sand?

If you plunk a beam

Near the noonday sun

And Bind it to stones

Where creeks overrun

Would the color glow

Rainbow ripples through?

Would greenish water

Infuse bluish hue?

Take the tree of youth,

Turn leaf ‘neath the dirt,

Would roots grow upward?

Tender limbs be hurt?

Is nature to bruise

Or to be our guide?

Should man go his way

Or move with the tide?

Life’s a mountain road.

We climb to the top

To slip down mossy

Slides to sudden stop.

Can we reach that height

We fight to obtain?

Or solve the problem

Of our mountain lane?

Think this foggy thought,

Never to be clear:

We must get to there.

We cannot stay here.

You and I

Tonight the stars sparkle in our sky.

We hold the stars in place - you and I.

We lay, pale statues, on grass of green,

Conceiving, you and I, summer’s dream.

Life is Jest Hard Work

Step out in the morning;

It’s drizzling rain.

Like to stay in bed;

Got to catch a train.

No thinking nice thoughts,

Same old same old daily news,

Got to go to work to

Earn your union dues.

Life’s jest hard work,

but whatcha gonna do?

Walk up the street;

Try to get across.

Get almost nearly hit.

Man yelps, “get a hoss!”

Home and wife nagging,

“Get to work, lazy man!”

Yakking in your ears;

Blisters on your hand.

Life’s jest hard work,

but whatcha gonna do?

You sweep the porch;

Dishes you wash.

Like to run away;

Get yourself lost,

But ain’t no use

Thinking this neither.

Won’t get no peace,

Until Saint Peter.

            Life’s jest hard work,

            but whatcha gonna do?

It’s a foggy morn,

Hear the distant horn.

Rain near hailing thorns.

Wish you ain’t born!

It goes dawn to dust,

Wishing for some fun;

Perhaps a little lust.

T’ain’t found either one.

            Life’s jest hard work,

            but whatcha gonna do?

Illustration: Miners - Source Unknown

Pennsylvania in December

Winds pile snow like hills.

Tiny waterfalls frozen ice.

People cower against the chills.

            Pennsylvania in December

Wind's Song

Ah,

I am the whistler,

I’m the wispy keeper, the ancient hymn.

I whistle morning.

I whistle night.

Do

You hear the whistler?

Do you feel a fear you are blind to see?

I whistle morning.

I whistle night.

Sometimes when I sing, they think the song is love,

But in these shrouds I hide the icy tears of blood.

Ah,

I am the whistler

Marching through the brown leaves playing dirge tunes.

I whistle mourning.

I whistle night.

I whistle happily a sad song.

Home

Feel close the night.

The night is lonely,

Damp and mist-filled,

In search of tomorrow.

Clouds are a ceiling.

Weeping willows are walls.

Green grass is a rug

Along a hall of water.

            Feel close the night,

Feel you are home.

It Is Christmas Next Week

It’s snowing in the country,

Coming down in white flakes.

Piling up by the kitchen door,

While Christmas cookies bake.

We don’t care if

The drifts get real deep.

Christmas is coming next week.

It’s fine for sledding

And throwing snowballs.

The kids are having fun

Just watching the snow fall.

White snowmen with silk hats

Upon their head.

With songs of Santa

And his suit of bright red.

Toys are thought of.

Lists are being made.

Children are extra good,

Much more behaved.

Manners better

And spirit hard to beat,

For they know

It’s Christmas only next week.

It’s snowing in the country,

Coming down in white flakes,

Piling on the highway

And there’s ice upon the lakes,

We don’t know when

It’ll end. Gee, it’s deep.

Christmas is coming next week.

The adults are shopping.

Worries are leaving.

The rich are giving.

The poor are receiving.

While carolers are singing

Songs of our Savior

Or peace on earth

And love of neighbor.

The mothers are baking.

The fathers are joking.

The children are playing.

The chimney is smoking.

Trains are set up.

Trees are trimmed bright

And towns are lit up

With rows of Christmas light.

Walks are shoveled

And cards are sent out.

Children telling Santa

What they want while on his lap.

The children are restless,

At night they can’t sleep

For they know

It’s Christmas only next week.

It’s snowing in the country,

Coming down in white flakes.

We will get out our sleds

And put on our old ice skates,

Then we will slide

And ride home to sleep

And Christmas is coming next week.

I Beg-g-g of You-u-u

I BEG-G-G OF YOU-U-U

 

I don’t want my head to be broken,

It’s the only one I got.

Darlin’, please be careful,

I know you’ve beared a lot.

Please, don’t break my head,

                        I beg of you!

 

I don’t want my blood a-drippin’.

You know I’d hate to die,

And that’s what bound to happen

If your temper gets too high.

Darlin’, please don’t get so high,

                        I beg of you!

 

Hold my hand and promise,

You won’t make it black and blue,

Even if I know you hate me,

Hate me through and through.

 

Little girl, you got me miserable,

Must you shoot me too?

Please don’t take advantage

Of my bruises blue.

Darlin’, please, please don’t do,

                        I beg-g-g of you-u-u!

HOT ROD RICHARD

(To Richard A. Wilson)

Hot Rod Richard came a-roaring around the bend

In a souped-up streeter with a sleeked-down rear end.

Into the straightaway and around a curve again.

            He sure does move that mess of tin.

Hot Rod Richard in his car decked and stripped-down,

Going along the road really covering ground.

Fastest wheel-riding cat in all rural Pottstown,

            Riding with a loud glass pipe sound.

He is the hot rodder the coolest girls all chase,

For this cat wins in every dragging flat race.

As the hot rodding king, Richard is no disgrace;

            He holds the hand with every ace.

A Teenage Girl at a Big Star Record Hop in 1957

A TEENAGE GIRL AT A BIG STAR RECORD HOP IN 1957

 

Listen to the guitar.

Hear the drum beat.

            Elvis is real cool,

                        Mineo is neat!

                                    April Love croonin’

                                                Be-Bop Baby spins.

                                                            Ricky Nelson is there

                                                                        Singin’ like he don’t care.

                                                                                    Really dishin’ them out,

                                                                                                From Treat Me Nice

                                                                                                And Go, Cat Go on to

                                                                                    Alcoholic mice.

                                                                        Let’s swing to the beat.

                                                            Last record repeat.

                                    Ev’rybody’s here

Makin’ with the big cheer.

Listen to the drumbeat.

            Hear the guitar.

Everlys are really cool,

Fats is far out.

Frankenstein

FRANKENSTEIN

They said I was mad. But I’ll show them

Who’s mad. I’ll build a monster that will

Destroy the world.  I’m not mad!

So, I built me a body and I installed a brain.

Then I waited for thunder, lightning and rain.

I put it on a stand and when the lightning came;

It’s Alive, Felix, it is alive! Who’s insane?

Felix didn’t like him. He beat him with a cane.

Then one day, when Felix did it just the same,

The mad monster hung him by a long heavy chain

And left him dangle there in the pouring rain.

They use to come to me and say, “Baron Frankenstein,

Pay your bills, they’ve been due a long, long time,

But they met my monster with his skin sweating slime

And they haven’t bothered me anymore about my crime.

            Eeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhoooooooooooeeeeeeee!

What was that shrill, horrid scream? Let me go see.

They’ve killed my deathless monster and hung him in a tree!

But who could have done it, who could have defeated me?

Why, it’s the U. S. Army and General Elvis Presley!

Stranger

STRANGER

They whispered there’s a stranger

And he’s riding toward town.

They wondered where’d he come from

And why’s he coming ‘round?

Was he a criminal

Wanted by the law?

What was his name?

Was he fast on the draw?

Would he run if

Someone called his bluff?

Or wouldn’t poker-faced words

Be sufficient enough?

Where had he come from?

What would he do?

Everybody wondered –

No body knew.

He rode a large horse,

Both palely white.

They stood out clearly

Riding at night.

Could he be bested?

How was his hook?

Everybody watched him.

Everybody shook.

He settled himself into

The Long Horned Cattle Hotel

And for a goodly moment

Ev’rything went pretty well,

But one chill autumn day

Ed Black came along

And said by sundown

The stranger had best be gone.

He didn’t run,

So they squared off in the street,

And right after the battle

They buried Ed Black deep.

The stranger rode away

Without a scratch,

And we knew who he was:

One no one could match.

BUT INSTEAD OF JAZZ…

 

Just the other day or so, I went wrong.

Tuned the radio to hear a jazz song.

            But all I got, beside the news, was a nursery sing.

            Instead of jazz, I got a nursery sing.

Yes, Instead of jazz, I heard this tune

Prancing through my living room.

            Mary had a little lamb,

            Little lamb, little lamb…

 

Damn!

 

I thought I would be smart and change the dial,

And so I did, but in a little while:

            Yes, all I got, beside the news, was a nursery sing.

            Instead of jazz, I got a nursery sing.

Jinglely verses were all they would play.

Come on, man, just go away!

            A tisket, a tasket.

            A green and yellow basket…

 

Blast it!

 

The rest of the day those records did spin,

Until my aching brain began to swim,

            For all I got, beside the news, was a nursery sing.

            Instead of jazz, I got a nursery sing,

Though I got the Farmer in the Dell,

I didn’t feel very well.

            Farmer in the Dell,

            Farmer in the dell…

 

Hell!

 

Then I got mad at a bridge falling down.

I threw the radio right to the ground,

            But all I got, beside the news, was a nursery sing.

            Instead of jazz, I got a nursery sing.

It did not smash and it did not break.

It was more than I could take!

            London Bridge is falling down,

            Falling down, falling down…

 

My fair lady!