Bongo Fuey Lyrics

Debra Kadabra, say she's a witch,
shit-ass Charlotte, aint that a bitch?
Debra Kadabra, haw that's rich.
June, a rancho granny,
Shook her wrinkled fanny

Shoes are too tight and pointed
Ankles sorta puffin' out
Cause me to shout:

Oh Debra Algebra Ebneezra Kadabra
Witch goddess, witch goddess of Lankershim Boulevard.
Cover my entire bodice, with Avon Cologna.

And drive me to some relative's house, in East L.A. (foogadah! ?)
(Just till my skin clears up)
Turn it to channel thirteen,
and maybe watch the rubber tongue, when it comes out
from the puffed, and flanulent Mexican rubbergoods mask.

Next time they show the Brnokka
Make me buy The Flosser.
Make me grow brainiac fingers.
But with more hair!
(But with more hair)
Make me kiss your turquoise jewelry.
Emboss me.
Rub the hot front part of my head,
with rented unguents

Give me bas relief!
Cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it.
If she casts a spell my way,
I promise to go under it.
If she casts a spell my way,
I promise to go under it.

Oh, hear this!

Learn the pachuco hop, and let me twirl you!
Learn the pachuco hop, and let me twirl you!
Oh Debra Fauntleroy Magnesium Kadabra! Take me with you!
Don't you want any a these?

I could'a swore her hair was made of rayon
She wore a Milton-Bradley crayon
But she was something I could lay on
Can't remember what became of me
Carolina hard-core ecstasy

She put a Doobie Brothers tape on
(lalalalalaa la)
I had a Roger Daltrey cape on
(a Roger Daltrey cape on)
There was a bed I dumped her shape on
Can't remember what became of me
Carolina hard-core ecstasy

Somewhat later on, I woke up and she was gone
There was dew out on the lawn
In the sunrise
Later she came back, with a rumpled paper sack
Which she told me would contain
A surprize

She stuck her hand right in and to the bottom
Said she knew I'd be surprized she got 'em
Take a Charleston PIP! to spot 'em
Then she gave a pair of shoes to me
Plastic leather fourteen triple D

I said I wonder what's the shoes for
She told me "Don't you worry no more"
And got right down there on the towel floor
"Now darling stomp all over me"
Carolina Hard-core ecstasy

Is this something new?
Having people stomp on you?
Is it what I need to do for your pleasure?
(Pleasure is all I need)

What is this a quiz?
Don't you worry what it is.
It is merely just a moment I can treasure

By ten o'clock her arms and legs were rendered
She couldn't talk cuz' her mouth had been extendered
It looked to me as though she had been blendered
What was this abject misery?
Carolina Hard-core ecstasy

[guitar solo]

What was this abject misery?
Carolina Hard-core ecstasy
What was this abject misery?
Carolina Hard-core ecstasy

It might seem strange to Herb and Dee
Carolina Hard-core ecstasy

Sam with the showing scalp flat top,
particular about the point it made.
Why, when I was knee-high to a grasshopper,
this black juice came out on a hard shelled chin.
And that called that 'tobacco juice'.
I used to fiddle with my back feet music for a black onyx.
My entire room absorbed every echo..
The music was.. thud like. The music was.. thud like.
I usually played such things as rough-neck and thug.
Opaque melodies that would bug most people.
Music from the other side of the fence.
A black swan figurine lay on all color lily pads.
On a little conglomeration table of pressed black felt.
With same color shadows, and seamed(?) knobbed knees, and what-nots.
The long hallway rolled out into oddball odd.
Beside the fly-pecked black doorway,
that looked closed on the tar-lattice street.
Up a wrought iron fire escape.
Rolled out a tiny wooden platform with
dark, hard, dark rubber wheels.
Roll, skreek! Roll, skreek! Roll, skreek!
Sam with the showing scalp flat top,
particular about the point it made.

Sam was a BASKET CASE!

A hardened dark ivory clip held.. saleable everyday pencils.
I wish I had a pair 'o bongos!
Bongo Fury! Bongo Fury!
Oowwwww! Bongo Fury!
Bongo Fury! Bongo Fury!

While we're at it, we have a sort of a cowboy song we'd like to do
for ya. This is a song that deals with the rapidly approaching 200th
birthday of the united states of america, ladies and gentlemen. This
is a song that warns you in advance, that next year, everybody is
gonna try and sell you things that maybe you shouldn't ought to buy,
and not only that, they've been planning it for years. The name of
this song is (pardon me), Poofters Froth, Wyoming, Plans Ahead.

Poofters Froth, Wyoming,
March Eleven Sixty-Seven
Take a letter, Miss Abetter
as our pigeons will be homin'.

To our jobbers in Dakota
And to Merwyn, Minnesota
This is merely just a note about
Performance to our quota

Well, we've all come out to show dem,
And the Elks have helped us
Load 'em
Little packets full of jackets
Little rackets, little rackets

Little Poofter-Cloth Appointments
Little Pofter's Froth Anointments
Little hoods, little goods
Little doo-dads from the woods

The entire stock is shipping
Oh our shod is hardly slipping
To the markets of the world
Our wrinkled pennants are unfurled!

T-shirt racks, rubber snacks,
Poster rolls with matching tacks
Yes, a special beer for sports
(and aper cups that hold two quarts)

Everything a nation needs
For making hoopla while it feeds
The trash compactos, small reactors,
Mowers, blowers, throwers & the glowers:

This is Buy-Cent-Any-All Salute(HYULK!)
Two hundred years have gone ka-poot!
Ah but we have been astute!
Signed: Anon. - Wyo. Galoot!

I was sittin' in a breakfast room in Allentown, Pennsylvania, six
o'clock in the morning, got up to early, it was a terrible
mistake... sittin' there face-to-face with a 75 cent glass of orange
juice about as big as my finger and a bowl of horribly foreshortened
cornflakes, and I said to myself: "This is the life!"...

She's 200 years old,
so mean, she couldn't grow no lips
Boy, she'd be in trouble if she tried to grow a mustache

She's two hundred years old
Squattin' down & pockin' up
In front of the juke box
just like she had True Religion.. BOY!

She's two hundred years old
Hoy!, hoy!, in 200 years,
half of this, none of that,
one.. fifty.. oh squattin',
Yeah-ah, ain't she got
Oohhh, she got religion now, boy.

Oohhhh, ?? ?? ??
Oohhhh, she's just mean,
she just, she just can't grow no lips.
Squat.. down, so mean she can't grow no lips.
200 years old, so mean she can't grow no lips.

Out in Cucamonga
Many years ago
Near a Holy Roller Church
There was once a place
Where me and a couple of friends
Began practicing for the time
We might go On TV

And as fate would have it
Later on we got a chance to play.
All we ever really knew:
That it was crazy (Nanook, no-no)
To be doin' it any other way

No more credit
From liquor store
Suit is all dirty, boy
Shoes is all wore
Tired and lonely, my
Heart is all sore
Advance romance
I can't stand it no more

Told me she loved me
I believed what she said
Took me for a sucker, boy
All corn-fed
Next thing I knew
She had a bolt on the door
Advance romance
I can't use it no more

She took George's watch
Like they always do
(It was a Timex, too!)
No more money, boy
I shoulda knew

The way she do me, boy
She might do you, too

Advance romance
People I am through!

Potato-head Bobby
was a friend of mine
Open three of his eyes
In the food stamp line
Open four of his eyes
In the food stamp line
Open five of his eyes
In the food stamp line
Open six of his eyes
In the food stamp line
Said she might be a devil
But she sure was fine
Advance romance
He wanna try it one time

Later that night
He drop on by
Told her all he wanna do
Was step up and say "Hi"
Half an hour later
She had frenched his fry
Advance romance
Bobby, say good-bye

Are you with me on this people?

The man with the woman head
Polynesian wallpaper made the face stand out,
a mixture of Oriental and early vaudeville jazz poofter,
forming a hard, beetle-like triangular chin much like a praying
Smoky razor-cut, low on the ear neck profile.
The face the color of a nicotine-stained hand.
Dark circles collected under the wrinkled, folded eyes,
map-like from too much turquoise eyepaint.
He showed his old tongue through ill-fitting wooden teeth,
stained from too much opium, chipped from the years.
The feet, brown wrinkles above straw loafers.
A piece of cocoanut in a pink seashell caught the tongue
and knotted into thin white strings.
Charcoal grey Eisenhower jacket zipped into a load(?) of green
A coil of ashes collected on the white-on-yellow dacs.
Four slender bones with rings and nails
endured the weight of a hard fast black rubber cigarette holder.
I could just make out Ace as he carried the tray and mouthed,
"You cheap son of a bitch"
as a straw fell out of a Coke, cartwheeled into the gutter.
So this was a drive-in restaurant in Hollywood,
So this was a drive-in restaurant in Hollywood,
So this was a drive-in restaurant in Hollywood.

The Muffin Man is seated at the table in the laboratory of the
Utility Muffin Research Kitchen... Reaching for an oversized chrome
spoon he gathers an intimate quantity of dried muffin remnants and
brushing his scapular aside procceds to dump these inside of his
He turns to us and speaks:


Arrogantly twisting the sterile canvas snoot of a fully charged
icing anointment utensil he poots forths a quarter-ounce green
rosette (oh ah yuk yuk... let's try that again...!) He poots forth a
quarter-ounce green rosette near the summit of a dense but radiant
muffin of his own design.
Later he says:


Girl you though he was a man
But he was a muffin
He hung around till you found
That he didn't know nuthin'

Girl you thought he was a man
But he only was a-puffin'
No cries is heard in the night
As a result of him stuffin'

Bruce Fowler on trombone, Napoleon Murphy Brock on tenor sax, and
lead vocals, Terry Bozzio on drums, Tom Fowler on bass, Denny Walley
on slide, George Duke on keyboards, Captain Beefheart on vocals, and
soprano sax, and madness. Thank you very much for coming to the
concert tonight. Hope you enjoyed it. Goodnight Austin, Texas, where
ever you are.