My Gang - Michael Stipe

Many people have been frighted and died in cemeteries

Since the days of my gang, the night

Ninip Houde came up and talked to me

On the block and i rowed the imaginary

Horse on the rowel of the porch rail

Where i killed 700,000 flies or more

While Ma and Beatrice gossiped

In the kitchen, and while drape sheets

We airing on the line that’s connected

To midnight by midnight riding roses

Oy- the one bad time that Zaggo

Got home from school late, dark

In the streets, the sisters majestico

Blooming in the alley retreat, beat

'Your gang is upstairs' says my mother

And i go up to my closed smoky door

And open it to a miniature poolhall

Where all the gang is smoking and yakking

With little cue sticks and blue chalk

Around a miniature table on stilts

Bets being made, spittings out the window

Cold out there, old murder magoon

The winter man in my tree has seen

To it that inhalator autumn

Prestidigitate on time and in ripe form

To wit cold

To wit cold, to wit you, to wit winter

To wit time, to wit bird, to wit dust-

That was some game ole Salvey blanged

When he beat G.J.

that time

And Rondeau roared

Rondeau was the cookie that was always

In my hair, a ripe screaming tight

Brother with heinous helling neck-veins

Who liked to riddle my fantasms

With yaks of mocksqueak joy

«Why don’t you like young Rondeau?»

Always i’m asked, because he boasts

And boasts, brags, brags, ya, ya, ya

Because he’s crazy because he’s mad

And because he never gives us a chance to talk

Awright- i’d like to know what

Bobby’s got against me- but he won’t

Tell, and it’s brother deep- in the room

They’re shooting the break, clack

The little balls break, scatter di mania

They take aim on little balls and break

Em up to fall, in plicky pockpockets

For little children’s names drawing

Pictures in the games in the whistle

Of the old corant tree splashing

In the mighty mu Missouri lame image

Of time and again the bride and groom

Bloom and again the bidal blood, oo

Too-too and rumble o mumble thunder

Bow, ole Salvey is my alley

Ole Salvey’s my alley i’ll lay it on me

I’ll shoot fourteen farthings for Father Machree

And if ole Hotsatots don’t footsie

Down here bring my gruel, i’ll

Be cruel, i’ll be cruel