Monday, July 10, 2006

Amnesiac Class Of 76


More recovered lyrics, slightly shop-soiled from the inimitable King Mong corporation. Thanks to Mssrs Lewis, Garberdine and Blown for their kind cooperation in getting the value rights and opportunity issues that allowed An Idiot's Guide access to their vaults; you guys dot the 'i's and cross 't's like no one else:


Amnesiac Class of 76

At the reunion,
Old faces met new bodies
And milled expectantly
As they pulled off the speeches
And searched for their places.


Philip could remember Jo and Alice and Pete
But not himself.

Nothing could jog his memory
Not even the photos of him in the bath-tub
With Jo between his legs.

Jo remembered Philip
But not Pete

Who claimed that he and her
Had lost themselves in music
And consummated wisely.

Alice knew both Phil and Pete
But not Jo

Since she'd sunk her teeth
Into those two guys
On more than one occasion.

Pete thought he knew Phil and Jo
But not Alice

Who claimed patrimony
Off him anyway
And showed him the marks.

Phil remembered the first time
That Jo had broke a limb
But forgot that he slammed the door
As she tried to kick.

Jo remembered how
One man drove her to distraction
But forgot that his name was Pete
And shunned him accordingly.

Alice still smiled at Pete and Phil
Remembering the cucumbers
But couldn't place Jo
Who'd gone to the grocers.

Pete loved Jo
Could name her toes
But Forgot all about Alice
Who'd paid for his holiday.



The four sat, quite still
Not sure how to make it work.
Pete had a word and Jo had a slap.
Phil jumped in,
Forgetting his glass jaw,
And somehow Alice got tied up
In a debate with Pete over
Quality Management.

Phil rubbed his chin
And threw a glass at Pete
Who'd forgotten how to duck,
Or so it seemed.
Alice remembered dimly
Something about Jo
And demanded with vigour
And on the spot fine.

Someone with a hat
And half an ear missing
Got fussed and bothered
And needed to wade;
Came over to pull them apart
But then forgot what he was doing
And sat down and cried.

'Lincoln! Don't cry!' they all yelled out.
And stopped
And stared
And fell about laughing
As the band kicked in.


It's never quite the same without the maps of harpsichordonics or the patent flugel shorn echoes (or, yeah, the massed banks of Casio FZ1s and SK5s) but you can more or less get the idea, especially if you sing them to yourself in a dark tunnel while listening to something like Thierry Ghorgeth's Rapturous Apples in B Minor through earmonitors at maximum volume.

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