yeah, I got the commie-loser blues
from the top of my non-nationalistic dictator’s cap down
to the tips of my steel-toed shoes.
I dress in ratty clothing
I shelved my classy suit
I’m full of righteous loathing
money is the root.
I’m a privileged proletariat
with a computer my daddy bought for me
and a sense of gallows humor
the cops beat into me.
Bucket torture in another life
carries over to present strife.
I got the loser-commie blues
cause I watch too much news
and I fell for the ruse in polemic hues.
They parted the godless paranoid seculars
from the god-fearing spiritual monopolist regulars.
Their theory includes a supreme being
who’s very rarely seen
and they respect the boss man who runs the cruel world with an iron fist –
whose existence is so peripherally obvious, how could he’ve been missed?
I must have ignored the signs
closed the blinds
while writing my manifesto –
movement four: Finale presto.
I had a choice between philosophies
it came down to one scale.
Left was cowardice, right was greed.
I knew what both sides would entail.
I decided to become a loser-commie
a pussy-boy liberal – well, that’s what they called me.
Between greed and cowardice
thought I was powerless.
It was my destiny and duty
to choose the loser-ideology
the one rich with irony
and ripe with double-meaning
from the latest cultural gleaning.
It’s the ideology for losers
and the losing ideology
and in this land of plenty
the losers are the minority.
I still follow the WTO
wherever they go
playing in the freakshow –
just an act, don’t you know?
And Mao was a jerk
and Soloth Sar went berserk
and Communism doesn’t work
cause it’s not employed
just a drunken theory
some educated Jew scribbled while pissed.
Unimplemented, that’s the God’s honest truth.
The Queen’s English.
The Alien’s Logic.
The grad city
named after me –
The monument to the idle poor –
The poor idol that is
thrown out of the modeling biz
I can’t even rant on behalf
of my fellow commie riff-raff.
Marx was the artist – no statesman wannabe.
Lenin the producer – sold the product to a country.
Stalin the abuser – purged twenty million bad commies.
And I’m the modern loser – deluded soul actually.
And we have the wise-ass critics
the self-appointed cynics
congregating in capitalist utopia
the owner’s paradise
dispensing with advice
the world isn’t nice
the paradox is spice to season tasty hypocrisy
the dream of reality
the price of reality
the business end of things, the real deal
I got the loser-commie blues
yeah, the loser-commie blues.
This should be an anthem for the forcefully confused.
Ah, but whatcha gonna do?
whatcha gonna do?
I’ll be a loser-commie till the bitter fuckin’ end
and it is bitter.
It’s my just desert
and it’s just desert
at the end of the meal of life
the cyclic journey of negative entropy where Nietzsche possesses my body in the penultimate act, that poor, suffering, stoic, heroic oberman incarnate with syphilitic insanity, unjustly labeled proto-nazi, and me with AIDS from God in the final act of my tragedy and transition to another hellish life in an even lower circle of Dante’s Hell which is, really, political philosophy yet no form of reality.
Saddled with an eternal baggage of bad karma I’m doomed to try and convert the masses like a Jehovah’s witness accepting the oblivion that awaits him on the other side of that big suburban door in the sky.
I got the loser-commie blues
cause I never paid my dues
and I can’t blame the Government
and I can’t blame the Christians
and I can’t blame Myself
and I demand compensation
for my current situation
as a public nuisance
a private disgrace
incidentally a headcase
like you didn’t know.
I’ll launch a nuisance lawsuit
sue the pants off that public
become the parasite I was destined to be.
I can plead ignorance
when they drag me into court
and I won’t have to plead insanity.
I’m a public nuisance
or am I a public servant
in a slavery caste?
the last of the last
the final evolution of the unevolved
the single citizen of singular hell
all in one and just as well
assuming the burden of humanity.
Oh the humanity!
Oh can it already!
There’s gotta be a loser –
the receptacle of the system
the lone poorman
standing in the rain, holding the door to the pub
so everyone else, and I mean everyone else, can enter the utopia club.
to the very public I’m trying to serve or save.
Can you forgive me?
Can you feign mercy?
Can you put me in a padded penitentiary?
With a nice big-screen TV?
In the lap of sinful luxury?
Or the lap of sodomy?
I said I never liked it but it’s beginning to grow on me.
Or just strap me to a table
and end this violent fable
with a lethal injection
obituary in the sports section
so I can join Jack Ruby
in the superimposed beyond
where you go when you die a certain way.
We’ll haunt the world together – scare the shit out of those still-living fools
and look over our lives in spare moments.
Just a thought.
Just a fancy fantasy.
Just fantastic fancy.
And isn’t it a pity
I’m still sucking off the government titty?
Still claiming it’s not enough
that life is too tough.
Living with junkies
and unemployed college flunkies
in the alleys, sleeping through populist rallies
the losers, boozers, drug abusers
or if that isn’t plenty bad
LIVING WITH MY MOM AND DAD!
There’s still time boy!
You can change your line boy!
You can find solace through the genuine Jehovah!
not some false idol
nor your suicidal song
which is just plain morally wrong.
If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
That’s logic boy, can’t go wrong with logic
We love the sinners but hate the sins.
We’re divine merciful capitalist Christians.
some kind of solace...
Returning this present present?
Why not study history?
Washington was no commie, I can prove that categorically.
Jefferson was no pinko and that slave-owning slander’s blasphemy.
Benedict Arnold was an imperialist dog –
we should have rooted him out and drowned him in the bog
that lackey for the tyrannical British monarchy
high officer of the Illuminati
lizard creature in the shape-shifting hierarchy
the one David Icke saw clearly through his homemade crystal ball
the ouiji board of conspiracy
the prophetic placebo
more to come.
My mother was impregnated by space creatures from Neptune
just like a tabloid headline.
That’s where I got my alien logic
not to mention my curved commie spine.
Clinging to the threads of a cultivated conviction –
my five year old ideology.
I can’t let my baby go that easily
withdrawal makes me awfully queasy
it’s bad for my heart –
won’t death do us part?
I don’t have a death wish, just a premonition
and my neurotic, atavistic superstition.
I wanna take it up the ass from McCarthy
it’s my lifelong masochistic fantasy
a senator-fucking wet dream
to make me cream my jeans.
I must involuntarily bust a nut
with my socialist sex-life in a rut.
This song reeks of self-pity
and speaks of personal sanctity
and it makes people think
I’m over the sanity brink
done with the rationality phase
that idiotic oughts craze.
I must tell some white lies
to fake my demise.
EVEN IN DEATH
a public nuisance...
So communism has gone down the drain
and yet the problems still remain
to be sorted out in 2112
when the apocalypse comes and darkness reigns.
Yes, let God sort them out
you’d better not pout
I bet on Jesus with the fifth round knockout.
I’m utterly, prophetically confident of this.
My pre-apocalyptic mark can’t miss.
I’m fucking Nostradamus
seeking catharsis or some kind of solace.
You’ll see you bastards, you’ll see
cause it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.
What’s to be done can’t be undone
I’m the quiet loner with a gun
I shot fuckin’ Kennedy
I’m nobody’s patsy
and now I’ll topple the conspiracy
the Bohemian Grove can’t stop me!
At the helm of this sinking ship
lies the head money and resource hoarder
the new king of the new world order:
King George the second
not to be reckoned
with standard paranoid thought patterns.
They’re good these guys – they randomize.
Ah, but what ya gonna do?
Whatcha gonna do?
Whatcha gonna do?
Wave the red flag of perceived hypocrisy
the reminder of the Cambodian atrocity
the loser-commie banner of sub-mediocrity
to Salieri’s ninth Symphony!
We were dangerous for a while
perhaps one day again, we’ll be
but we’re going into a long sleep now
these days they call it cryo-stasis.
The world isn’t ready for us
must wait ‘till Captain Tripps devastates the land
like the biblical flood straight from God’s hand
that greater minds than us had long since planned
then we’ll rise like sneaky little Randall Flaggs with serial initials
and repair the rusted Soviet missiles
convert the primitive tribesmen with pure Marxism
creating that inevitable societal schism
and fulfill Brother Marx’s never-promised promise
of universal utopia
with Uncle Ho
and In-law Castro
standing in the shadows as our guardian jedis.
But right now...
I am an anti-Christ
and I am an anarCHIST.
No, that was Johnny Rotten
– now I’m scraping the bottom –
a spoiled fruit, a festering sore
once dirt poor.
Can’t be borrowing ideologies.
Can’t be stealing those unique psychologies.
Can only sing the loser-commie bluescause I got nothing left to lose.
So I got the loser-commie blues
yeah the commie-loser blues
addicted to a system
that no one ever used.
Some seem quite amused, whether for fake or real, I can’t tell
at this shabby, battle-scarred, Bolshevik shell
but I can’t get no more from the wishing well.
Here, I’ll give you a buck
you pitiful fuck
now leave me alone
I’ve gotta get back home
don’t have no time
to listen to you whine.
Brother, I just spared ten dimes.
Well, that’s inflation for ya.
Whatcha gonna do?
Don’t worry, be happy.