A Most Disgusting Song Lyrics - Coming From Reality - Rodriguez

I've played every kind of gig there is to play now 

I've played faggot bars, hooker bars, motorcycle funerals 

In opera houses, concert halls, halfway houses. 

Well I found that in all these places that I've played 

All the people that I've played for are the same people 

So if you'll listen, maybe you'll see someone you know in this song. 

A most disgusting song. 

The local diddy bop pimp comes in 

Acting limp he sits down with a grin 

Next to a girl that has never been chaste 

The bartender wipes a smile off his face 

The delegates cross the floor, 

Curtsy and promenade through the doors, 

And slowly the evening begins. 

And there's Jimmy "Bad Luck" Butts 

Who's just crazy about them East Lafayette weekend sluts 

Talking is the lawyer in crumpled up shirt 

And everyone's drinking the detergents 

That cannot remove their hurts 

While the Mafia provides your drugs, 

Your government will provide the shrugs, 

And your national guard will supply the slugs, 

So they sit all satisfied. 

And there's old playboy Ralph 

Who's always been shorter than himself, 

And there's a man with his chin in his hand, 

Who knows more than he'll ever understand. 

Yeah, every night it's the same old thing 

Getting high, getting drunk, getting horny 

At the Inn-Between, again. 

And there's the bearded schoolboy with the wooden eyes 

Who at every scented skirt whispers up and sighs 

And there's a teacher that will kiss you in French 

Who could never give love, could only fearfully clench 

Yeah, people every night it's the same old thing 

Getting pacified, ossified, affectionate at Mr. Flood's party, again 

And there's the militant with his store-bought soul 

There's someone here who's almost a virgin I've been told 

And there's Linda glass-made who speaks of the past 

Who genuflects, salutes, signs the cross and stands at half mast 

Yeah, they're all here, the Tiny Tims and the Uncle Toms, 

Redheads, brunettes, brownettes and the dyed haired blondes, 

Who talk to dogs, chase broads and have hopes of being mobbed, 

Who mislay their dreams and later claim that they were robbed 

And every night it's going to be the same old thing 

Getting high, getting drunk, getting horny 

Lost, even, at Martha's Vineyard, again