Skip navigation

Regreso Del Mal Rock

the songs on this album are:

Graveyard of Lost Romantics

Equalizer / introduction

Bat’tle / AWAKEN remix [ft: D.C. Ty the Monster]

AWAKEN your mind / interlude

F. W. Y. W. F. [ft: Pablo Fiasco of the Scotch Bonnets, H.R., and the Pietasters]

Song of Bajazeth

Anacostia Sinderellah

Action Jackson

Homeless Nights

Granada Winston

Ozymandi-Strummer

Thunk Rock

13-13 / interlude

Gettin’ Rid of Bodies

Death Comes in 3s

For the Dead [ft: Lady Moet Beast]/ conclusion: we Cruddy Rite

the lyrics on this album are

Graveyard of Lost Romantics:

Tom Waits and Patti Smith swapping stories on the pedistal,

enter the Graveyard of Lost Romantics

Marvin and Curtis, singing those inner-city blues

down in the Graveyard of Lost Romantics

Bob the Jester’s leaning on the windowsill

looking over the Graveyard of Lost Romantics

Arlo and Woody Guthrey are there

gravediggers in the Graveyard of Lost Romantics

LET’S RAISE SOME SPIRITS

I’d turn on the radio, but it doesn’t turn me on

I’m talking about the wasteland of commercial music

more interested in Coltrane and taking Giant Steps

into the Graveyard of Lost Romantics

Deep in the Graveyard of Lost  Romantics

Equalizer / introduction

What is Madness Really?

Curled in your sick-bed, cancer in your brain

no medication will ever save you

Welcome to the Great Equalizer

What is Madness Really; What is Madness;

What is Madness but the Great Equalizer

Crouched in the trenches, grip your mask and gun

visions of your fallen comrades

Welcome to the Great Equalizer

What is Madness Really; What is Madness;

What is Madness but the Great Equalizer

Eh– Lyricists’ Watch is not Fooling Around.  So before the Return of the Bad Rock smacks you upside the head, Know This: this was an all sober recording, and you can catch us every Monday at 7pm EST on on Cruddy Rite Radio….

Bat’tle / AWAKEN remix [ft: D.C. Ty the Monster]

Bat’tle–

the bullets bounce off of my bullet-proof chest

well you say who’s that coming, well I say who’s next

yeah I got secrets, I play it close to the vest

as for altered states of consciousness…

I’m a schizophrenic mess.

Bat’tle–

My Frozen Body, My Frozen Soles,

Two Black Eyes, My Bloody Nose

the bullets bounce off of my bullet-proof chest

well, you say who’s that coming, well, I say who’s next

yeah I got secrets, I play it close to the vest

as for altered states of consciousness…

I’m a schizophrenic mess.

Bat’tle–

My frozen body, My Frozen Soles,

Two Black Eyes, My Bloody Nose

sing it for me boys…

Bat’tle–

BULLETS

Bat’tle–

My Frozen Body, My Frozen Soles,

Two Black Eyes, My Bloody Nose

AWAKEN your mind / interlude

Awaken, Awaken, Awaken,

Awaken, Awaken, Awaken, Awaken, Awaken, Awaken

 your mind

You think I’m joking when I say Bad Rock?  Ohh, there used to be Bad Rock, once, but you have gravely disappointed me.  I bet you pussy-footin’ rock’n’rollers ain’t even wearing Boots when you play guitar, and you M.C.s with no back up drummer… (hock-spit) you’re worthless, kill yourself.  And if I catch you groping in the Mosh Pit, I’m gonna Kick you in Your FACE.  And I’ll enjoy that!

F. W. Y. W. F.   [ft: Pablo Fiasco of the Scotch Bonnets, H.R., and the Pietasters]

Be’le’ Dat

Fuck who you wanna fuck, dog, fuck who you wanna fuck;

kill who you wanna kill, dog, kill who you wanna kill;

mace who you wanna mace, girl, mace who you wanna mace;

fuck who you wanna fuck, dog, fuck who you wanna fuck.

Fuck who you wanna fuck, dog, fuck who you wanna fuck;

kill who you wanna kill, dog, kill who you wanna kill;

mace who you wanna mace, girl, mace who you wanna mace;

fuck who you wanna fuck, girl, fuck who you wanna fuck.

Fuck who you wanna fuck, girl, fuck who you wanna fuck;

kill who you wanna kill, girl, kill who you wanna kill;

mace who you wanna mace, dog, mace who you wanna mace;

fuck who you wanna fuck, dog, fuck who you wanna fuck.

I’m inclined to be, like, he needs to follow the chick, here.

Song of Bajazeth

My enemy has taken all away from me

my satin gown, emperor’s crown, away from me

my fondest love, brightness of the sun, away from me

And it feels so good to open up to Hate.

My enemy has constantly defeated me

I’ve lost my might, my would-be wife, depleated me

now they want peace, want me to cease, entreated me

And it feels so good to open up to Hate.

A mockery has been made out of me

my enemy will know more see his victory

I’ll bash my brain upon this cage he keeps me

And it feels so good to open up to Hate.

Anacostia Sinderellah

Hit Me!

I met her on the corner in the streetlamps’ glow

where K street intersects with Massachucetts’ avenue

she wore a black dress didn’t run to her thigh

I said, hey lovely we should go for a ride.

I wanna see money and power, she then cried,

you wear your glass slippers, I’ll wear my black tie,

she turned to me trembling with fear in her eye,

I must be back ‘cross the river ‘fore the stroke of Midnight, well–

Behind these iron gates, girl…

the Social Elite control the fate of the world

then out to that balcony with moonlight turmoil

she looked in my eyes and my head start to swirl, but–

She broke from my arms the first stroke of the clock

down that marble staircase to her dangerous block

I stumbled to the corner, still a-reeling in shock

how many romances must be ruined by the clock?  well–

SAXOPHONE

Let’s Rock–

‘Cause Lyricists’ Watch is here to clean up.

Action Jackson

a’ight, cool

Action Jackson, gotta get up n’ go

Action Jackson, gotta get up n’ go

So you take the lighter fluid

and you pour it on your jacket

and you light it on fire

and you skateboard down the parking lot

Action Jackson, gotta get up n’ go

Action Jackson, gotta get up n’ go

GO-eeoh-eeoh-eeoh

GO-eeoh-eeoh-eeoh

Action Jackson, gotta get up n’ go

Action Jackson, gotta get up n’ go

So you take off both your boots

and you start to climb the skyscraper

and your 15 stories tall

and you can’t get down

Action Jackson, gotta get up n’ go

Action Jackson, gotta get up n’ go

GO-eeoh-eeoh-eeoh

GO-eeoh-eeoh-eeoh

Action Jackson, gotta get up n’ go

Action Jackson, gotta get up n’ go

So you take the flight of rum

and you pour it on the ground

and you’re kicked outta the club for no reason

so you piss on a cop car

Action Jackson, gotta get up n’ go

Action Jackson, gotta get up n’ go

GO-eeoh-eeoh-eeoh

GO-eeoh-eeoh-eeoh

Homeless Nights

Homeless Nights, Homeless Nights

oh-oh, oh, oh-oh oh-oh

Went to New Orlean after the Hurricane, now,

saw the waterline and the falling window panes

and Michael Brown’s still the face of shame

there’re refugees in America, now, girl.

Homeless Nights, Homeless Nights

oh-oh, oh, oh-oh oh-oh

Followed that refugee trail to Dallas

met a man named Michael who’s hands were callused

he said all they needed was tools and opportunity,

his wife said all they needed was mass group-disaster therapy, now

Homeless Nights, Homeless Nights

oh-oh, oh, oh-oh oh-oh

Homeless Nights, Homeless Nights

oh-oh, oh, oh-oh oh-oh

Walking one day by old-man Cheney’s abode, yeah,

smoked a cigarette by the side of the road

the S.S. showed ’cause there were patches on my clothes,

I learned even the Secret Service used to listen to Minor Threat–

now That’s some Investigative Reporting, Mother-Fucker…

Homeless Nights, oh-oh, oh, oh-oh oh-oh

Woke up on a park bench, must’a been the other side of the continent,

I remember ’cause the Pacific Ocean sounds in reverse,

woke up by a homeless guy, wouldn’t you know he’s from Maryland

we recycled all night for a half-pint and some Black Tar

— CUT IT

Granada Winston

When I go back to Grenada

gonna quit these working ways.

Gonna live the life that’s easy

till I’m resting in my grave.

Well, the Boss take all the money

for the sweat that rolls down my back.

Gonna cast my net in the ocean

eat all the fish that I catch.

Don’t Work too hard, boy.

Don’t Kill Yourself, boy.

Well, you see I am an Old Man, now,

let me give a Young Man some advice.

Don’t you work so hard all your life,

just to end in a bodybag.

Don’t work too hard, boy.

Don’t kill yourself, boy.

Ozymandi-Strummer

I was walking through the desert on my own

vultures circling

then I felt alone,

death was imminent.

Saw a Broken Statue,

no head, no hands,

and that statue read:

Look on my Works ye mighty, and DANCE…

DANCE…

Saw a Broken Statue,

no head, no hands,

and that statue read:

Look on my Name ye mighty: Ozymandi-Strummer

Thunk Rock

This is Lyricists’ Watch/ This is Lyricists’ Watch

Donde estan mis cubanos?  donde estan mis venezuelanos?

donde estan mis chinos?

Y parra mis primos comunistos, tengo NUEVOS

y los nuevos no son nuevos.  Comunisismo es un experimento FALTA.

Capitalism is not going away,

so make your money now and then build a big grave.

Capitalism is not going away,

so make your money now and then build a big grave.

Capitalism is not going away,

so make your money now and then give it away.

Capitalism is not going away…

eh, away…

So you like money, huh?

You know a monetary system I could get behind–

The pebble, the pebble, the big shiny pebble,

the pebble, the pebble, or clamshell.

The pebble, the pebble, the big shiny pebble,

the pebble, the pebble, or clamshell.

The pebble… or clamshell.

So allow me to give you some sound financial advice–

invest in tombstones…

13-13 / interlude

Cowards

Insignificant

Owners of nothing

HEY ISIS: WHAT!

All I see, is a bunch of homeless folks,

running around with guns.

They ain’t done nothing.

And that depends on what your definition of is is

Cowards

Insignificant

Owners of nothing

I execute mother-fuckers everyday.

Verbally.

Cowards

Insignificant

Owners of nothing

You ain’t no Goddess I know.

Goddesses I know don’t ride tanks.

Goddesses I know prefer skateboards.

In case my message is unclear, this is my death-fuck, to all who would bust-up statues, to all who would slaughter journalists, to all who would want to lock someone up– death-fuck to you, does that translate?– Death-fuck.  I got mad-pride for all my Purple Hearts, all my Rape Survivors, all my Sober alcoholics; but growing-up a skater-punk in the mid-Atlantic, we got stickers on our ramps that say, Enlistment Officers Lie.  And your Drill Sergeant should be kicked in the nuts at every opportunity!  That’s mad funny, yo.

Gettin’ Rid of Bodies

Gettin’ Rid of Bodies

We’re gettin’ rid of bodies

We’re gettin’ rid of bodies

We’re gettin’ rid of bodies

We’re gettin’ rid of bodies

You ready to get rid of some bodies?

The Skull: the lye.  The Ribs: the lye.  The Limbs: the lye.  The Spine: the lye.

Gettin’ Rid of Bodies

We’re gettin’ rid of bodies

We’re gettin’ rid of bodies

We’re gettin’ rid of bodies

We’re gettin’ rid of bodies

Voto en mis elecciones comunidades

The Congress: the vote.  The School Board: the vote.  The Senete: the vote.  But not the President, he’s a person, not a political BODY

We’re gettin’ rid of bodies

We’re gettin’ rid of bodies

We’re gettin’ rid of bodies

We’re gettin’ rid of bodies

We’re gettin’ rid of bodies

You ready to get rid of some bodies?

Trans-corporation means leaving your body behind, but this is a fiction in our lifetime, so I’m not talking trans-corporation, I’m talking–

Gettin’ Rid of Bodies

We’re gettin’ rid of bodies

We’re gettin’ rid of bodies

We’re gettin’ rid of bodies

We’re gettin’ rid of bodies

GETTIN’ RID OF BODIES

Death Comes in 3s

Death Comes in threes.

Whom do you know?

What are you made of?

Whom do you know?

!YEAH!

Death Comes in threes.

How is your luck?

What are you made of?

How is your luck?

Death comes in threes.

Whom do you know?

What are you made of?

Whom do you know?

!YEAH!

Love comes in threes.

Whom do you love?

Can you love?

Who raised you how?

!YEAH!  YEAH.

YEAH, YEAH, YEAH, YEAH, YEAH.

yeah.

For the Dead [ft: Lady Moet Beast]/ conclusion: we Cruddy Rite

This song…

is for the dead.

The dead, the dead, the dead, the dead

this song is for the dead

the dead, the dead, the dead, the dead

Step-up to the microphone.

Sing about your dead-folk.

You got eight bars, so

make ‘um count.

The dead, the dead, the dead, the dead

this song is for the dead

the dead, the dead, the dead, the dead

Man, my friend Rockwell, he was a real Punk-Rock dude, I tell you that.

He liked to drink cranberry and vodka, and he smoked, well, he smoked everything, but

he studied Marxism and Socialism, and he taught Social Studies, and

now, now, now, now, now

He’s dead,  he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead

this song, this song is for the dead

the dead, the dead, the dead, the dead

My grandparents, Paul and Christine Wick, they were alive,

and they saved their love letters to each other, and they were married fourty years,

and now, now, now, now

They’re dead, the dead, the dead, the dead

this song, this song is respect for the dead

the dead, the dead, the dead, this song is for the dead

[Steve] Yeah, my friend Belcher, he was a big player on the airwaves.

He used to get their goat by coming up with a phrase like,

I know just what you’re talking about but I just wanna say

[belch] Whoopie!– hahahahaha

The dead, the dead, the dead, the dead

this song is for the dead

the dead, the dead, the dead, the dead

Spill cups for my homies and ancestors laid to rest

Take a couple sips, feel the burn in my chest

Yesterday’s celebrity becomes today’s legend

the same’ll come for me in 50 years, I reckon

Burn herbs, lit candles, sow prayers, bow heads

–I’m dead–

I’m dead, dead, the dead

this verse is the last of the song

the dead, the dead, the dead, the dead

The dead, the dead, the dead, the dead

this song will be again at our next show

the dead, the dead, the dead, the dead

–the dead.

Are you Not Entertained?  Are you Not Entertained.

Lyricists’ Watch is not fooling around.

‘Cause if you’re fuckin’ with the Lyricists’ Watch, you’re fuckin’ with the Cruddy Crankerz, you’re fuckin’ with Mr. Nickles and Dimes, you’re fuckin’ with my hard hittin’ skater punks like Alex V. and Edvin, you’re fuckin’ with my MAD man Andrew P., you’re fuckin’ with man Harvey with the Foghorn Leghorn T-shirt– you know he don’t take no guff from nobody when he’s wearing that Foghorn Leghorn T-shirt– you’re fuckin’ with the World-Famous Tony Blunt, you’re fuckin’ with the family business, you’re fuckin’ with my peaceful mother fucker C-Music– you know the baddest gangsters don’t lift a finger to blitz the fuck out you– you’re fuckin’ with the Firm of Ali, Dey, and El

and you’re fuckin’ with me.  And if you haven’t heard already…

I’m not fooling around.

You have been listening to Lyricists’ Watch,

and now, back to the Moeham Report

end of lyrics

facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedintumblrmail
facebooktwittergoogle_pluslinkedinrssyoutubetumblr