What we once thought we had, we didn'tnAnd what we have now will never be that way againnSo we call upon the author to explainnnOur myxomatoid kids spraddle the streetsnWe've shunned them from the greasy grindnThe poor little things they look so sad and oldnAs they mount us from behindnI ask them to desist and to refrain!nAnd then we call upon the author to explainnnWell, rosary clutched in his handnHe died with tubes up his nosenAnd a cabal of angels with finger cymbalsnChanted his name in codenWe shook our fists at the punishing rainnAnd we called upon the author to explainnnHe said, everything is messed up round herenEverything is banal and jejunenThere's a planetary conspiracy against the likes of you and menIn this idiot constituency of the moonnWell, he knew exactly who to blame!nAnd we call upon the author to explainnnProlix! Prolix!nNothing a pair of scissors can't fixnnWell, I go guruing down the street nAnd young people gather 'round my feetnAnd they ask me things, but I don't know where to startnThey ignite the powder trail straight to my father's heartnAnd, yeah, once againnI call upon the author to explainnYeah, we call upon the author to explainnnWho is this great burdensome slavering dog-thingnThat mediocres my every thought?nI feel like a vacuum cleaner—a complete sucker!nIt's fucked up and he is a fuckernBut what an enormous and encyclopedic brain!nI call upon the author to explainnnRampant discriminationnMass poverty, third world debtnInfectious disease, global inequalitynAnd deepening socio-economic divisionsnWell, it does in your brainnWe call upon the author to explainnnNow hang onnMy friend Doug is tapping on the window!nHey Doug, how you been? (hey Doug)nWell, he brings me a book on holocaust poetry – complete with picturesnAnd then he tells me to get ready for the rainnAnd we call upon the author to explainnnProlix! Prolix!nNothing a pair of scissors can't fixnnBukowski was a jerk!nBerryman was best!nHe wrote like wet papier-machénBut he went the HemingwaynWeirdly on wings and with maximum painnWe call upon the author to explainnnDown in my bolt hole I see they've publishednAnother volume of unreconstructed rubbishnThe waves, the waves were soldiers movingnWell, thank you! Thank you!nThank you and againnI call upon the author to explainnnProlix! Prolix!nThere's nothing a pair of scissors can't fix