Sixto Rodriguez - A Most Disgusting Song

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 chased. 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.