The Purple Pubes
Did you know I’m in a band called the Purple Pubes?
We’ve quite the cult following in my living room.
I am the talent, but sometimes Divvy Dan
takes a break from the scrounge
to be my wreckhead Rent-a-Bez
tambourine stooge.
There’s no point in a ticket, we are too impromptu:
at loco o’ clock I just put on a show.
Can’t go on a tour, too raw for the rubes.
Can’t cut a record, too avant-garde for the cubes.
We’re not about the music, it’s purely the booze.
Acoustic nogoodniks, grot-rock goons
with dregs in our cries, embers in our croons.
The neighbours are unimpressed but they
know it’s dole-day afternoon,
when the Pubes play to forget they are doomed.
You won’t have heard of a band called the Purple Pubes
- the singer’s a fucking loser, tambourineman looks like
he's on shrooms.
I’m the talisman, but sometimes Divvy Dan
never takes a break from the tam,
lost in vague remembered woods
of sniffing glues enthused.
We’ve already trashed our lives, don’t need hotelrooms.
At lobo o’ clock howl do you do
is what my greeters growl at my muse,
which is the watching blue wolf of wasted youth.
When you got them borderline underclass steppenwulf blues,
the Black Dog is but a picnic pooch.
Bow-hoo-hoo-wow, may the mirth of Mozart infuse
my yelps of yearning and yowls
that we were born lambs and will die tramps we two.
The Pubes have a jam to forget for a time
that monkey see, monkey consume.
We love you, goodnight, we have been the Purple Pubes.
We are even shittier than the Shitty Beatles.
I’m tambourine man too, sometimes Dan
takes a break from the tam,
cryin’ over my childhood nylon detuned
ballads for blacktoothed prostitutes.
And my sex-life is rock ‘n’ roll
as a lecture on medieval looms,
but we’re still too rock ‘n’ roll to be found on your Youtubes
- we’ve never left the living room, we’ve kept to our roots.
Sisters of mercy lie sing we dead boys of truth,
who are honestly really rock ‘n’ roll, do you want some proof?
Well, the other day I let Danny’s dog lick my open wounds.
We haven’t got an ad in the back of the Boogaloo News,
what self-respecting young dude wants to be a Pube?
Flying Dutchmen don’t rearrange deckchairs,
we need no road crew,
but all you sober truth troubadours too troubled to troube,
Danny’s damnbourine also tolls for you.
Coz, brother, that white dole-monkey
keeps time with the Devil’s own soul-hungry grooves.
But then again I’ve had a few.
We’ve been the house band since time and tenancy began,
we’ve spent our lives on the road that’s skewed.
You’d think we’d rock more having so much nothing to lose,
but the Purple Pubes play because all hope is pooped.
Doomed,
the band split. Now Dan bangs the tam
for the Stolen Runes,
who play Rolling Stones' licks stissed,
who play Stone Roses' riffs poned.
And I'm forming a Pubes tribute act
called 'Mauve Mangarden'.
We're holding auditions,
so crack open an Oranjeboom!
Coz if the Devil makes work for idle hands
and if he's got all the best tunes,
then it stands to reason
turning on, tuning in and dropping out
never stopped being rock 'n' roll.
But if the dropping out never stops,
isn't that just a life spent in freefall?
We love you, goodnight,
we have been Mauve Mangarden.
We are even shittier
than the Sucky Rutles.