Artist/Band:
Captain Beefheart
Lyrics for Song: 81 Poop Hatch
Lyrics for Album: Other Songs - Captain Beefheart
My eyes are burnt and bleeding and all that looks like
a monkey on a silver bar ,
big poop hatch with a cotton hatch â€" hatch holes
that the light shows in and the light shows out ,
and the little red fence ,
and the wire and the wood ,
and the barbs and the berries ,
and the tires and the bottles and the caruponrims ,
and the heat swims on its fenders and the dust collects
and the rust of autumn surrenders into gold ,
trumpet poop on the ground with peanuts its bell was
blocking an ant's vision ,
and the mice played in its air holes and valves ,
a ladybug crawled off its mouthpiece standing out red
and blacked its wings and blew off to a flower ,
its hum heard just above the ground ,
black dots were hung in what turned out to be an olive
tree that originally held a tree house full of a building
with one small window ,
birds and broken glass and tiny bits of newspaper ,
"My sun is free from the window," said the god the green dabbers ,
rice wires mouse tins and milk muffins ,
cereal and stone ,
matches and masks and mace and clubs ,
and splintered shaft light intrigues a cricket on a dust jeweled penlet ,
cobwebs collect down plaster run into a hole and find
collected glass that drinks the reflection of midday
afternoon midway between telegraph lines ,
a silver wing â€" a cloud â€" a rumbling of a cloud ,
a crowd of various violins strum from next door through
my wall into my ear obviously artificial ,
neighbors laugh through sandwiches ,
Harlem babies â€" their stomachs explode into roars ,
their eyes shiny with starvation ,
spreckled hula dance on my phonograph ,
my door rattles windy ,
sand wears my rug shoe and taps on the unheard finish
of an hourglass I cannot hear ,
a typical musician's nest of thoughts filter through dust speakers ,
"Why don't you go home? Oh Blobby,
are you great," exclaims two lips in some jumbled rock
'n' roll tune and wears a spot I cannot scratch ,
the surface of a friend ,
this high book a friend laid on me ,
on the couch relaxing in the corner behind a still
life pond with plenty of bugs and lily pads slurred
in mud banks and boulders tin cans and raisins warped by thought ,
strain on the spoon like a wheat check â€" check Bif
â€" cotton popping out of his sleeve ,
poop hatch open â€" big poop hatch with a cotton hatch
â€" hatch holes â€" got to pick up the horns ,
but the head won't move until it walks
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