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Little Gospel Song.
My soul was pierced by the Lords blessed spear,
My eyes were blinded by his light,
My heart is witness to a burning passion,
I am unworthy before his sight.

Deliver me from the mouth of Satan,
Deliver me from that tongue of fire,
Take me to your holy mountain,
Wash me in the blood that flows from your side,
Wash me in the blood that flows from your side.

Living With Girls.
I got a little secret,
I bet you can't guess.
If you promise not to tell a soul,
I'll tell you what it is.
I hate (He hates)
We hate living with girls.

I'll tell you why,
Because they're rude and uncouth.
And they tell lies,
Which means they never tell the truth.
You get girl's germs,
When they pash you on the mouth.
Those bad, bad women will wipe us good men out, oh yeah.
The walk around naked,
Or wearing skimpy towels.
If you try to be polite,
Then their tempers get foul.
They can't play football or gridiron,
Or even grow a beard.
I'll tell you something brothers,
Girls are weird, Oh yeah.

I've got to find a way to cope,
But there is no hope yet.
Give me scotch whisky,
Give me cigarettes,
'Cos I hate,
He hates,
We hate living with girls!

They act real smart,
They read Flaubert and Proust.
They talk on art,
But they never clean the house.
They can't cook,
They can't darn or sew or iron,
Or vacuum clean or hang clothes upon the line, Oh Yeah.

I'll have to live by myself,
There's no one I've met.
Who'll give me Scotch whisky,
Give me cigarettes.
'Cos I hate, (he hates), We hate
I hate, (he hates), We hate
I hate, (he hates), We hate
(Living with what?)
GIRLS!

Manchester.
You tried your hardest,
You did your best.
You put in a good bid,
But failed the test.
You lost at football,
At cricket too.
The British Lion's been beaten,
By a kangaroo.

Bad luck Manchester,
Bad luck son.
You put in a good bid,
But Sydney won.

You know Britain's been upset,
Since their bid went down.
But they're glad Paul Keating,
Didn't hang around.
Some things have gone missing,
From the palace grounds.
When Keating left at Heathrow,
He was wearing a crown.

Ahh the Poms, they can't say G'day,
Or ridgy didge.
They haven't got an Oprah House,
Or a Harbour Bridge.
They haven't got no Bondi's,
They've got no Botany Bays.
They haven't got no Monty,
With his filthy ways (disgusting man),
Or little Liz Hayes.

They haven't got Normie Rowe,
Barry Crocker or Smilie.
The only thing they've got over here,
Are Jason and Kylie (yeah and they belong to us, true enough).
Sure they've got Dame Edna,
And they've got Clive James.
But one thing's for certain,
They haven't got the Games.

But we're good winners,
We won't rub it in.
Well, ooh, go on,
You lost, lost, lost.
Let's sing it again!

Bad luck Manchester,
Bad luck son.
You put in a good bid,
But Sydney won.

Maria.
I love a girl called Maria,
Her name was Maria,
They call her Marie Marie Marie Marie Maria.

She loves a guy whose a Maori,
A New Zealand Maori,
Yeah he's a Maori Maori Maori Maori Maori.

They sailed a kayak down the Murray,
They sailed down the Murray,
Down the Murray Murray Murray Murray Murray.

They docked the boat at the marina,
They docked at the marina,
At the Marie Marie Marie Marie Marina.

They loved pasta marinara,
Pasta marinara,
They loved their Marie Marie Marie marinara.

They skipped through a field of marigolds,
Through a field of marigolds,
A field of Marie Marie Marie marigolds.

They said one day they will marry,
Yeah one day they will marry,
Yes they'll marry marry marry marry marry.

Sadly they died this afternoon.
Cha cha cha!!

Memphis.
We sat on that porch,
With that rain coming down.
It stirred up that dust,
And it turned it to mud.
The county block boys were scraping their knives,
They brought Texas dancing boots to kick your black hides.

We hid behind the creaking porch swing,
The music to ???

You buried me in the wake of your arms,
But I did not cry at all,
Not at all,
Not at all.

The day's dragging this back door to hell,
As Lucas swings in the dead tree.
Oh you were beautiful then,
Not yourself at all.

But your annoying voice,
Your charity gone.
The crumpled postcard,
That bears your name.

Your arms around my neck,
Are as tight as a rope.
That burns Lucas's neck,
Let it swing.
Oh let it swing,
Let it swing.
Let it swing.
Let it swing.

You look pathetic in this rainy delight,
With your make-up gone,
Your hair pulled back.
You live your life like your mother did,
Half a drunken black bitch with mongrel skin.

I bought you Texas dancing boots,
To kick your black hide.
Yeah Memphis,
Yeah Memphis.
Alright,
Memphis, Memphis, Memphis.
Yeah Memphis, etc.

Mexican Hitler.
Ein volk, ein Reich, ein Cha Cha Cha!
Ein volk, ein Reich, ein Cha Cha Cha!
Arriba!

Here comes the German Re-unification.
Catch the plane to Buenos Aires,
And find the new generation,
On the autobahn with Speedy Gonzales.
Eating nachos in the sun,
South America here I come.

I want to be a Mexican Hitler,
Viva la fuhrer, viva la fuhrer.
With Mussolini in a white sombrero,
Viva la fuhrer, viva la fuhrer.
Here comes the new law and the new order,
Reichstag's burning south of the border.
When you're low, where can you go? Where to?
Mexico! Mexico!

We'll find a small Peruvian Village,
Just like Poland we'll burn, rape, pillage, drink Tequila,
Then siesta with Goering, Goebbels, Himmler and Kessler.
Then I'll quench my evil desire,
By setting Eva Braun and Blondie on fire

I want to be a Mexican Hitler,
Viva la fuhrer, viva la fuhrer.
While Franco dances a fascist rumba.
Viva la Franco, viva la fuhrer.
Who's that in the Volkswagon car?
It's the little old Nazi from Pasadena.
Eh Cisco! Eh Pancho! Where did they go dude?

We met a knee slapping senorita who worked for a peso on Salon Kitty.
Big girls love dick-tators but the ones that do aren't pretty.
Here comes the fourth Reich baby,
And if the propaganda works one day,
Then we'll all be goose-stepping in Cal-if-orn-ia.

I want to be a Mexican Hitler,
Viva la fuhrer, viva la fuhrer.
While Saddam Lambadas.
Viva la Saddam, viva la fuhrer.
It's a triumph of the will here come the three boys from Brazil.
Hey-ho off we go,
Where to? Stalingrad! ...Mexico! Mexico!

The Middle Class.
Ba dom, ba dom, ba dom, ba dom.
Your eyes wwim in the beer where the bar room lights are hung.
With your friend Jo Jo, with your friend Pierre,
You drink a toast to being young.
Jo Jo thinks he's Voltaire, Pierre he's Casanova,
And me, I proudly do not care.
Me, me, now I am Navratilova.

And at midnight we watched the salesmen pass coming out of hotels with real class.
We showed them our good manners and we showed them our ass.
And how we sang:
The middle class are just like pigs,
The older they get the fatter they get.
The middle class are just like pigs,
The fatter they get the less they regret.

Ba dom, ba dom, ba dom, ba dom.
Your heart feels so right,
Swim in the beer where the barroom lights are hung.
With your friend Jo-Jo, with your Pierre,
Holding on to being Jung,
Volitaire danced like a vicar, but Casanova was too stout.
And me, I proudly did not care.
And Paul stank until we passed out.

And at midnight we watched the salesmen pass, coming out of hotels with real class.
We showed them our manners and we showed them our ass.
And how we sang:
The middle class are just like pigs,
The older they get the fatter they get.
The middle class are just like pigs,
The fatter they get the less they regret.

Ba dom, ba dom, ba dom, ba dom.
But your heart's gone down your eyes do not flash.
The hotel bartender sings our praise.
Now Jo Jo is no clown, Pierre pays in cash.
Among the bookkeepers we spend our days,
Now Jo Jo just speaks of Voltaire and Casanova is just a book on the shelf.
And me, I proudly do not care,
Me, me, me, me, me, I speak only of myself.
And everybody knows that we've got real class,
There's not an evening we cannot pass.

Those lousy little kids always showing their ass,
Oh God, how they sing:
The middle class are just like pigs,
The older they get the fatter they get.
The middle class are just like pigs,
The fatter they get the less they regret.

Misunderstood.
Baby, you understand me now,
Sometimes I seem a little rash.
Don't you know no one alive can always be an angel,
When things go wrong you're bound to see some bad.
I'm just a soul whose intentions are good,
Oh Lord, oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood,
I've tried so hard not to be misunderstood.

Baby, I'm so carefree,
With a joy that's hard to hide.
There's a time when it seems all I have is worries,
If you're about you're bound to see my other side.
I'm just a soul whose intentions are good,
Oh Lord, oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood,
I've tried so hard not to be misunderstood.

I've tried so hard, when I got edgy,
I want you to know I didn't mean to take it out on you.
Life has it's problems, Lord, I get more than my share,
That's one thing I never meant to do.
Baby, I'm just human,
I've got my faults like anyone.
Sometimes I find myself alone at night,
Regretting some foolish thing, some stupid thing I've done.
I'm just a soul whose intentions are good,
Oh Lord, oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood,
Oh Lord, oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood,
Oh Lord, oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood,
I've tried so hard not to be misunderstood.

Motorcycle St Sebastion.
Broken down ditch water brown,
Pure radiance and another dead city.
I heard a voice alluring and cool say,
Live to ride, ride to live, hey!
Engine's blown the gasket's shot,
Mercy, mercy, to a grinding halt.
Stench of petrol, brand new matyrs,
Live to ride, ride to live, hey!

Motorcycle St Sebastion.
Bom bom bom bom bom ba da da!
You're a leather clad lad, you're a rapscallion,
Bom bom bom bom bom ba da da!
They hit you once, they hit you twice,
That's the sort of shit you like.
Motorcycle St Sebastion!

Lit like a live fuse, never settled,
Come on child press the pedal to the metal.
Got a one way ticket, no turning back.
Live to ride, ride to live, hey!

No one leaves they just move on.
Never forfeit your dignity,
Diesel heart, pure air in your lungs,
Live to ride, ride to live, hey!

Yet the will rolled onward like a wheel,
In even motion by love impelled,
That moves the sun in heaven and the stars.
Live to ride, ride to live, hey!

Mummy Dearest.
Hi ma, I've come back home,
Cos I don't like this world we live in.
For all my faults and failures please tell me I'm forgiven.
I want my old womb back my cosy cubby-hole.
I want to be your child again before I get too old.

Mummy dearest, mother mine,
It's me your baby boy.
I know what's lacking in your life,
That old maternal joy.
So let's boil up some water,
No need to get a nurse.
It'll be just like the virgin birth,
But only in reverse.

Mummy dearest, mother mine,
It's me your only son.
Freud would have a field day,
Trying to understand this one.
Let's have a natural re-entry,
Most doctors say it's easier.
But I've brought a butchers knife,
Just in case you want a Caesar.

It's not some old wive's tale,
Or some unfortunate wisecrack.
But you could use some extra weight,
And I need to take a nine month nap.
And I've been good, I've been good,
Now I deserve a small reward.
Don't want my birthday suit,
I want to wear my umbilical cords.
You know, the ones with the jumbo flare with the spot of blood around the cuff)

Mummy dearest, mother mine,
Look what the stork brought back.
I don't want no damp bunk bed,
I want my foetal sack.
I was a sad and lonely child,
I wish that you'd had twins.
And if you can spare the room Ma,
I'd like to bring some friends.

Mummy dearest, mother mine,
It's me your pookie bear.
I don't want to hurt you,
Or soil your underwear.
Cos you're my guru, my ma,
My host, my home, my mentor.
We could have a three course meal,
If we boil up the old placenta.
(Finger lickin' good ma!)