THE DELICIOUS MILITIA
CD TITLE: WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO THE BANJO GIRL?
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Men are Weak
A Month of Sundays and Mardi Grases
Song for Hogs and Frost
Hello, Oprah Winfrey, Please Talk to Me
Don't Leave Me for Frank Sinatra
I'm Addicted to the Weather Channel
Miss America's After Blaine
I Don't Know How to Fish
Grand Entry
I've Been Tellin' My Mom I'm Gonna Get a Sex Change
Obsessive compulsive Breakdown#35 & 1/2
So, Virginia, What do People Look Like There?
The Unabomber's Last Typed Letter to the New York Times (Hidden Track at the End)
MEN ARE WEAK
Well I came to see you Tuesday on Highway 35.
I was hoping to find you happy, barely even found you alive.
So we talked about the things that define us, like the make of your favorite car
And you said you lost your book on Virginia Woolf, but that's the way things sometimes are
And if I forget the words, I can't remember how to speak,
just remember I'm a man, and men are weak
Well if Hank Williams was a feminist, girl, I think he'd know your name.
But that ain't what I'm here for, that ain't even why I came.
I was just checking up on you, you know I do that once a year.
I told you I'm a deconstructionist now, and you said,"That's good to hear."
And if I forget the words, I can't remember how to speak,
just remember I'm a man and men are weak.
I was just thinking about Einstein, and I was wondering what he ate.
I thought that maybe you could tell me, but now I see I come to late.
Because I lost the question I really wanted to ask, or I forgot it long ago,
when you told me Johnny Cash was a misogynist, and then you told me that I should go.
And if I forget the words, I can't remember how to speak
just remember I'm a man, and men are weak.
Everything I ever wanted is tangled in my mind.
I stumble into the offensive, but I was only trying to be kind.
It just seems you were happier when you were a little less sincere...
but forget that and turn on that New Age music and give me another beer
And if I forget the words I can't remember how to speak,
just remember I'm a man and you always told me men are weak.
(Song and lyrics by Blaine Greteman)
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I'll be three Saturns away from home,
bourboned up and talking on my pocket
phone.
Don't tell me that you care.
I'll shoot off your ear,
then cut an album just like George Jones.
Louisiana's gotten way too dark.
We're moving this shit-ca-bang to Boomer Park.
Highdee, highdee, ho! Governor don't you know
I'm gonna come back and buy this trailer park.
I'm living a month of Sundays and Mardi Grases.
I don't know if I will ever fall.
My id's out of control;
Buddy I'm on a row.
I've been living a month of Sundays and Mardi Grases.
Cute cupcake please lay down with me,
but not for the whole century.
I'll wear your pantyhose,
rub jelly on your toes,
and in the morning I'll be the bee's knees.
I'd love to stay here and chill,
but you've been
talking Anita Hill.
You can't make me adept at 12 steps.
I'll touch myself up and down the Richter scale.
Cause I've been living a month of Sundays and Mardi Grases.
I'm drunk as a monkey in a brawl.
I ain't going to jail, so to hell with Montel.
Cause I've
been living a month of Sundays and Mardi Grases.
I'm stealing some lipstick at Walmart.
Gonna make myself a brand new start.
When you see me howl like Gomer Pyle.
It'll be a flashback of performance art.
And the whole world will see like Kathie Lee
how free I am to be me.
I'm giving up diapers and Eddie Rabbit car wipers.
Honey, New Orleans ain't got shit on me.
Cause I'm living a month of Sundays and Mardi Grases.
Send your
letter to me from the mall.
No more baby talk.
Honey go buy a dog.
I'll be living a month of Sundays and Mardi Grases.
Take some Zanex my pretty blond-haired ex.
I'm taking over this whippersnapper world.
(Song and lyrics by Doug Martin)
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I built my mobile home out of Robert Frost's cabin.
I pillaged wood while the writer's conference raged.
And in my dreams the hogs took over Oklahoma.
And in my dreams I keep seein' Faulkner's face
(I got a stick from his grave).
I'm not afraid of you leavin'.
I'm not afraid of cellophane stars.
I'm not afraid of Herbert Hoover
I'm not afraid of classic cars
You should know by now,
I'm scared of apocryphal scripture.
I just can't believe two brands of network news.
Well I killed my kinetics in a fit of prosody
I walked a million miles in Neils Bohr's shoes
I'm not afraid of Stillwater Militia
I'm not afraid of them tearing down my signs.
I'm not afraid of poets hyperventilating.
I'm not afraid of Kin and kind.
When our revolutions ended,
I liked your's better than mine
I could love you like a brother
but that's too unkind.
I've been home with Robert Frost's cabin
ever since you went away
Robert Frost's cabin keeps me from being afraid--
of anything, not even the CIA,
or Madeline Albright, allright,
or supernovas, or bad fish, or nothin'
I'm not afraid of the New World Order.
I'm not afraid of chaos in the night.
I'm not afraid of lanterns that burn out.
I'm not afraid of losing the light.
(Song and lyrics by Blaine Greteman)
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Goodbye, Junior, you're going away.
Don't see the puppy-snow that tries to concentrate.
There's gonna be a snowfall that's like a razorback.
There's
gonna be a track of dawn that's trying to find its way.
But don't leave
me the same. Don't leave me the same.
Hello, Oprah Winfrey, please talk to me.
There's a lot of things we
need to find.
Finding God in file inside the filing cabinet today made me
want to try to dine.
But don't you go to Texas.
Don't you try to go
under the sea.
Don't you try to go to Texas no more.
(Song and lyrics by Doug Martin)
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If I knew Hepburn and Hemmingway,
I would have fixed them up together.
Because they were both beautiful people
and Hemmingway needed someone to kick his ass
from time to time.
That's how I think of us,
because we've been fighting
about who's gonna buy the flowers
for our anniversary
And you've been saying you wanna be my Unabomber
every time I ask if you love me
But you've helped me in my darkness;
you've lived in me like a Dylan song;
and maybe I should kiss you;
and maybe I should kill you--
but then again I'm known for being wrong.
I've become adicted to writing apocalyptic poetry
and songs that do not rhyme very well
But somewhow we always manage to fine ourselves even
Somehow I always find you in the dawn.
And if I had a panoramic camera
(I would take a picture of the fattest man in the world
If I had a panoramic camera
I'd take a picture of everything
and I would give it to you
Because I'm about the cross the ocean
and I want you to carry it in your hand
Don't leave me for Wyoming.
Don't you leave me for no Frank Sinatra.
Don't you know he's been dead since the sun was born?
And how do you now, anyway, that I'm not Hemmingway?
How do you know you're not a drunken movie star?
Just once, let me take you to Tishamingo,
where there's nothing else to do but sit and stare
Because I'm tired of always living between distractions
I want to make my compass the space between your eyes
I want to focus our disorders
and wait for the implosion with you.
Because you helped me in my darkness:
You lived in me like a Dylan song
and maybe I should kiss you;
and maybe I should kill you--
but then I'm known for being wrong.
(song and lyrics by Blaine Greteman)
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Lightening struck tonight in Hydro, Oklahoma
George Meacham saw it take down three cows.
He was happy to be alive but badly shaken.
Now he's freebasing Viagra back at the house.
And I'm talking to the weatherman on the television--
Sharing my views on the apocalypse.
I love the way he looks into my eyes
every time he rolls the "Storm Chaser" clips
I heard tornado sirens after midnight.
The weatheman said, "Boy, better watch your back.
'Cause when tornadoes strike after midnight
that's when your dry mouth attacks."
I like to keep all my shades closed.
The TV screen lights me with a prophet's eyes
I've dissected my thoughts on Ronald Reagan
I've spent the last 12 days killing flies.
But the weatherman said he was coming to save me.
He said we'd build ouselves a new Brook Farm.
And I swear we are connected
by the frequency of the tornado alarm.
And I've been trying to explain my vision.
But all I can ever talk about is Whitman.
And no one but the weatherman understands me.
No one has ever loved me like Slim Pickens.
The streets are all so empty now in Stillwater
I can hear the world collapse away without a sound
And lovers never love you after Prozac
Tornado's gonna come and blow the whole world down
I heard tornado sirens after midnight.
The weatherman said, "Boy you better watch your back
'Cause when tornadoes strike after midnight,
that's when your dry mouth attacks."
(Song and lyrics by Blain Greteman)
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Got to ween myself off espresso cause the Aspen's closing down.
And Hugh Foley's living the station. God plays in the Town and Gown.
I've been talking two years to nobody cause they don't hear a word I say.
I've made a career out of talking, but I guess I'm no Doris Day.
Tara's going to Russia and Amy's going to Spain.
And I'm so sad and lonesome, and Miss America's after Blaine.
Kristy's writing her poems and Paul's got a new hair-trim.
And
Whistling Ted is a bitching cause Marilyn's going back to Tim.
And Crazy Bob's flipping off strangers, cussing and having a fit.
They ain't gonna legalize ganja so man just get over it.
The first time I placed in Playboy
I was only 22,
working for a mag called Gauntlet, and now there's a
Playboy bunny in my pool.
I need a woman to die with, a cap and a Mickey Mouse spoon
to beat up
against my wet forehead and join Neil Armstrong on the moon.
The pizza boy
has a hat on that says he's with the FBI.
I tell him he's as cute as a
hairball and should try to get on the Spy.
Rod Zink's doing his thesis,
and Michael's still talking sit-ins.
And Tara Tongco's beautiful but I got
to be in love with Walt Whitman.
Mandy (Blaine's wife!) is gonna beat up Miss America
and we're gonna
film it and call it art,
then we're gonna partake us some bourbon and give
away free poptarts.
I didn't make it to Russia, but my cowboy hat did.
Tara took it line dancing and gave it to a Russian orphan.
The sugarcane
fields in Mexico are asking to be doused,
covering the sky in Okie land
when I'm drunk at Garth Brooks' house.
Dehydrating I passed out, too much beer and caffeine withdrawal.
Amy
in charge of the jocks here said take poet to the hospital.
Cause Tara's still in Russia and Amy's still in Spain.
And it's as
hot as hell here, and Miss America's after Blaine.
Amy's still in Russia
and Tara's still in Spain.
And I'm hyperventilating and Miss America's
still after Blaine.
I'm dehydrating and Miss America's still in love with Blaine.
(song and lyrics by Doug Martin)
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Let me be with you. There is nothing that a dogman wouldn't do.
And
there's nothing else I should do, but to be with you.
I've been trying
to find the space of my eyes.
I've been trying too much to philosophize.
I've been trying to find the BBC on the radio,
but there's nothing doing.
When I go to die I want your hair.
When I go to die I want your hair with
me.
When I go to die I want your hair, anywhere.
But there's all the space that takes place in the Mississippi race.
There's the space that takes place between everybody.
And then one day I was walking across the street,
and a thousand
fire-hydrants I did meet.
And I don't want to talk in archaic English,
cause I don't know how to fish.
I never learned how to fish right, now.
I
tried to mail you a magnolia tree,
but an army of shrinks came after me.
And tonight, I'm gonna be on NBC.
And I'm dying.
I'm dying to be with you.
I'm dying to be with you. I'm dying, and
you're dying. And we're dying, as we speak.
There was this crazy Joe I knew back in Indiana
who tried to rob the
same gas-station twice.
Like all my friends he was a failure.
Now he's
rotting in jail and watching the Price is Right.
And he's dying. They keep dying. They keep dying. They keep dying. They keep dying.
And there's not much to do. Not much to do. There's not
much to do. Not much to do.
(Song and Lyrics by Doug Martin)
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Eh-uh-eh-oh
Eh-uh-eh-oh-eh-oh
oh-uh-oh-ya-oh...(rest lost in translation)
(Song and lyrics by Nokose Fenton Foley)
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Everybody thinks I'm crazy. They think I've been trying to take over the
Capitol Hill
But I've never read Danielle Steele.
Everybody's talking
about Jesus in the summer,
and everybody's talking about flowers in the
winter,
and I'm singing howl-le-lu-la, le-lay.
I don't know if I can find
their nuthouse, anyway.
We can drive 75 miles an hour on the Interstate in
Oklahoma,
and we can form our little groupies.
We can form the militia
and we can take over the National Guard.
I've been trying to find me a
Cherokee woman who lives across the street,
and she's always bitching
about supper, but we never eat.
I think I'm going back to Indiana and try
to find me a race car.
I spit in a cup and I spit on my floor.
I don't own a tavern. I've
never had a whore.
But I've been to Perry.
You know I might have to find
a worldly man to marry me
cause the family unit's destructing as we speak.
I said Hoover was a FBI man, but he was also a carpet cleaner,
and I've
got a carpet cleaner that must be named after him.
I don't care about his
lying flock of kin.
They're part of the plot just like that homely Dr. Quinn.
Covering up his preferences for men.
Will Rogers said if you don't like the weather in Oklahoma
just wait
about 15 minutes and it will change. It will change.
I've been tellin my
mom that I'm gonna get a sex change.
I've been tellin my mom that I'm
gonna get a sex change,
cause those women ain't good anymore.
You call me a whiteboy. You call me a sexist pig.
You call me
everything under the sun.
But if all of those Indians coulda kicked ass
we would have won.
Gonna beat that Custer's ass, that son-of-a-bitch
oughta die.
And I'm saying hey, I'm gonna become religious. I'm gonna
start planting my pipe-bombs like my seed. I'm gonna start becoming
religious.
I'm losing my chord pattern. . . I'm losing my chord pattern,
cause the government and these women are making me lose my chord pattern,
and all that deconstructional shit that the university tries to teach me.
We don't smoke marijuana in Muskogee, not on Christmas we don't.
We
don't shake our hips on no THC.
We don't roll fat stogies in Olkmogee,
cause everytime we do those thousands of cockroaches that think they're at
the Indy 500 convince us that we're in another world.
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I lick corn off your belly and spread you like a golf course,
while we
re-write the constitution, which with our bodies we endorse.
But tonight you're leaving and taking God away from me.
So I'll start listening to the crickets, those little Ross Perots.
And start spitting on my right fingers, and rubbing the door-handle with
my nose.
Trying, I'll be trying to strike a pose like that Edgar, Edgar AllenPoe.
Like the time I was in Terre Haute in a liquor store with Christ.
We
were buying a case of Mickey's and feeding Larry Bird some rice.
I was a young pup, I ate my sea men from a baby food jar.
While the
crowd and Johnny Cash did their rigamarole.
I had a praying mantis on my
little head.
They tried to lock me with the funnies in the funnybin.
(Song and lyrics by Doug Martin)
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I'm lost in my name. Wind woke up my hair.
The grass is growing old now.
Bill, it's time to beware.
It's short as a leap year, a drunken bar of
soap.
Is it worth the money? Computers all say nope.
I'm driving the windy miles with Wendy Miles tonight.
Bill Gates'
birthday, the end of the world alright.
Oklahoma City. . . . the Straight-Edgers' talk.
Tell the government
you're not afraid of the broccoli.
I predicted Frank Sinatra taking his
final row.
World, hasta luego, sure as polio.
We're going to Lynchburg to start a new commune.
Underground we're
wait on Christ, a reformed Keith Moon.
Be afraid of El Nino, the
greenhouse effect.
Wendy drive a bit faster--I'm becoming Zen.
Watch the day fall down a dancer.
The party goes dumb and happy,
just ask her.
Girls' urine for gun powder in the Civil War
won't stop the
end my kin no more.
I'm driving the windy miles with Wendy Miles tonight.
The
government's got surveillance cameras hidden in highway signs.
So,
Virginia, what do people look like there?
So, Virginia, what do people
look like there?
So, Virginia, what do people look like there? So. . .
(Song by Derek McCubbin, lyrics by Doug Martin)
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THE UNABOMBER'S LAST TYPED-LETTER TO THE NEW YORK TIMES
In days now there will be the death of ordinary birds
who have surrendered to the power of airport exhaust
in the cities with the same old names. A head of lettucewill rise up from
what looks like an ordinary kitchen sink,
where dirty dishes have set out the boring Oprah re-run tapes
of another long winter,but the sink will really be an ashtray
representing the upcoming millennium.If only your paper would print the hoot-owl
mimicking the Tibetan Monks at midnight,the blah-blah blah ofstreams,
my small worldly devices...Listen Ross Perot,
I don't believe a thing that goes tick-tick in the nightunder my cabin's roof
is anymore a sign of capitalism's beauty queen than the snow,
nor any more dangerous than a word processor.
I am going to send the Oklahoma militia in from off the banks
to cancel your book subscription to Harvard,
because I'm tired of f***ing with you bastards.
Jim Jones summed it all up when he said
"Who is to say that Montana is not the center of the earth, anyway?"
I guess you are just going to have to look for me elsewhere Jack.
I'm trying to become a tree.
(Rant by Doug Martin)
Back to Song List--but Isn't it Time to admit that you are not in your right mind? Buy the CD. Give in to your sickness. Buy it. You know you want to. Buy it. Buy the CD before something horrible happens! The new world order is coming into power as we speak! It's your patriotic duty, whether you are American or Russian or Iranian! Don't you care about your country?
buy the Cd!!
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