When Idioms Attack
We're all plain-spoken these days,
like an Amish at a barn raising.
There’s no place anymore
for Paul Bunyan or Pecos Bill.
Spoken words are lit firecrackers.
No one wants them to blow up in their hand.
It started on hump day, that’s what we used to call
Wednesday, except everyone was going at it
like cats yowling for each other at midnight.
You can guess the birthrate. I won’t say baby boom
can’t have that on my conscience.
Sure, it’s fun to watch pigs swoop through the air.
Hell might even be a glacier. But when you’re having sex—
making love is too complicated to say—and you tell her
she’s built like a brick shithouse, Well, ya gotta have
rocks in your head.
We're all plain-spoken these days,
like an Amish at a barn raising.
There’s no place anymore
for Paul Bunyan or Pecos Bill.
Spoken words are lit firecrackers.
No one wants them to blow up in their hand.
It started on hump day, that’s what we used to call
Wednesday, except everyone was going at it
like cats yowling for each other at midnight.
You can guess the birthrate. I won’t say baby boom
can’t have that on my conscience.
Sure, it’s fun to watch pigs swoop through the air.
Hell might even be a glacier. But when you’re having sex—
making love is too complicated to say—and you tell her
she’s built like a brick shithouse, Well, ya gotta have
rocks in your head.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson