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Who Let Him In Here?

by Tom Smith

The curse of my existence is the "heroes" [or, if you like, just "movies"] that I see, And I can't do much for them not doing very much for me. I can't identify with Magnum, P or I -- Schwarzenegger, Harrison Ford, and Michael Douglas leave me bored. Mel Gibson is too rugged, Matthew Broderick's too cute, Clint Eastwood is so cocky, I could punch him in the snoot. No, I'll look back in time to a gentleman sublime, Whose wit and style are seldom mentioned -- [in Lorre voice] -- But never failed to attract attention! When I grow up, I want to be Peter Lorre, I want to snivel and sneer in a nasal whine. I want to cring and curse, and maybe threaten worse -- [in Lorre Voice] -- And if that doesn't work, I've got a laugh that'll petrify your spine! Who wants to be a handsome, stuffy playboy? Who wants to face the bad guys all alone? The last thing that I need is to be a romantic lead, I want to grow up to be Peter Lorre and steal the girl for my own! When I grow up, I want to be Peter Lorre, I'll tell Nemo where Kirk Douglas went to hide. [in Lorre voice] Now, I didn't mind old Kirk, but Ned Land was such a jerk, And between a mad scientist and a jock, who would you want on your side? I want to sell the Bird to Sydney Greenstreet, I want to cheat with Vincent Price's wife, And if I want more kicks, I'll make Mister Moto flicks, I want to grow up to be Peter Lorre and have A Wonderful Life! [in Lorre voice] I could've starred in that, too! [in Lorre voice] When I grow up, I want to be Peter Lorre, I'll stalk the streets of Dusseldorf and Pairee, Waiting for some dame who has no sense of shame To foolishly make that one mistake and hang around with me. I want to whistle music from old operas As I am slowly strangling some pre-teen, I long for days gone by, [in Lorre voice] And that winking, blinking eye, I want to grow up to be Peter Lorre, You pretty boys are gonna be sorry, I'll be the best Peter Lorre you've ever seen! -- Is it too late to audition for "Gollum"?
Jenny be fair, and Jenny be fine, and wants me for to wed, And I would marry Jenny, but my father up and said, "I hate to tell you something, son, you maybe never knew, But Jenny's voted Democrat since Nineteen-Eighty-Two." Well, Julie be fair, and Julie be fine, and wants me for to wed, And I would marry Julie, but my father up and said, "Now listen, boy, a girl's a toy for cold and lonely nights, And Julie's worked the last decade for womens' equal rights." Well, Mary is fair, and Mary is fine, and wants to marry me, But Father said, "You're out of your head, she's not the girl for thee, She works in an abortion clinic, lives with pain and strife, And might get blown to smithereens one night by Right to Life." Well, Rachel is cute, and thinks of me as husband-on-the-hoof, But when my father heard of it, he up and hit the roof: "How can you think to marry her? My God, the girl's a Jew!" I didn't mention Stephanie, who's pagan through and through. Fine! Gail is cute, and Gail is tough, and wants to be my pal. But Dad said, "Marry her if you must, but don't befriend a gal!" I tried to tell him Gail does not want to marry me, But Gail told him better than I -- best two falls out of three. Well, every time a woman seems to be the one for me, My father blows it all to Hell with his philosophy, But I prefer my lady friends, and they have much more class, So I'll have an affair with whomever I care, and Dad can kiss my ass.
Hellraiser 06:00
Welcome, nice to meet you, We've been waiting for so long, In the hope that you'd drop by our little store. We may not be accessible To everyone, it's true, But we've got everything you want and more. So many other eyes have held the anguish in your own, Ambition burns within you like a fire, And I believe we have the thing To satisfy your every black desire. The things you want are found beyond doors More obscure than mine, But they will open if you have the proper key. The pleasures of the ages And the tortures of the damned Are at your fingertips for just a modest fee. And each sadistic fantasy exceeds the one before, You'll not believe the wonders to unfold, The mystery and majesty locked up Inside this box of black and gold. You twist it, and you pull it, and you twist a little more, Then you wait for your new playmates to rise up from the floor. If you want to buy damnation, I've got some to sell, Come take a chance and raise a little Hell. The greatest aphrodisiac Is power, so they say, Ambition leads to daring new extremes. But goals are meant to be fulfilled, And once you have, your careful-knit Existence can unravel at the seams. Contentment leads to boredom, to frustration, to the grave, A wasted life of emptiness and pain... Unless, of course, you walk the roads A lesser man would surely call insane. The world is made of other worlds We barely know are there, And beings that we cannot understand. Some are helpers, some are healers, Some have made an art form Of the vivisection of their fellow man. You'll marvel at their scrupulous attention to detail, Creativeness and exquisite technique, And when they've had you for awhile, You'll say "I love you" every time you shriek. They tease you, and caress you, and they slowly break your heart, Then oh-so-very carefully, they tear your soul apart. If life means nothing more to you, I think you might as well Come take a chance and raise a little Hell. Everything is relative Within the eyes of God, Someone's pain brings someone else's delight, And all it takes is just a subtle Shift in point of view To make the wrongs of Man seem good and right. But I should give you warning that a thing that's done is done, You cannot just abandon it and go, And if you try, you may find out Eternity is longer than you know. They play with every inch of skin, and seek out every nerve, An Inquisition giving you what you think you deserve. Where agony and ecstasy unite, you'll never tell, Come raise yourself a private little Hell.
The spice melange, it's so cinnamon sweet, I put it on most everything I eat. It's addictive, too, And don't it make my brown eyes blue. Dad got control over all that spice, But Baron Harkonnen had him iced -- Tried to kill me, too, And don't it make my brown eyes, Don't it make my brown eyes, Don't it make my brown eyes blue. So me and my mother ran away across Dune, Got found by the Fremen, not a moment too soon, They said it was easier to leave us behind, But if we went with them, it would stillsuit them fine. Now I'm dreamin' of a huge jihad, And the Fremen all think I'm God -- Maybe I do, too, And don't it make my brown eyes, Don't it make my brown eyes, Don't it make my brown eyes blue.
307 Ale 03:34
There's many drinks you'll drink, me lads, on every world that's new. There's Saurian Brandy, Cranapple Schnapps, and a good old Tullamore Don't. There's Busch and Beck and Bud and Bock and others dark and pale, But I think you'll find the finest kind is Three-Oh-Seven Ale. (chorus) Three-Oh-Seven Ale, me lads, Three-Oh-Seven Ale, The finest drink that any bar has ever had for sale, It'll lay your whole damn world to waste, it'll make you fit and hale, There's nothing that you'll ever taste like Three-Oh-Seven Ale, me lads, Three-Oh-Seven Ale. It started out at M.I.T. one lazy summer day, When a couple of the frat-boy techies started in to play, They'd caught up on their schedule with a couple hours to kill, So they fitted up the cyclotron and made themselves a still. (chorus) They added choice ingredients to brew a little brew, But they didn't know the wires were crossed in Chamber Number Two. A tiny bit of space got folded, things were looking queer -- They turned the spout and then came out the world's first Hyper-Beer. (chorus) It bubbled and it burbled and it glowed a fizzly green, And what it did to test equipment, frankly, was obscene. It took awhile to find a vial it wouldn't burst to flame, Then they measured out its potency, and that's how it was named. (slower) There's many drinks you'll drink, me lads, but this one beats them all: One hundred fifty-three and one-half percent alcohol, A beer, brewed in a tesseract, that'll shoot you through the roof -- And if you don't believe me, I've got lots and lots of proof. (final chorus) Three-Oh-Seven Ale, me lads, Three-Oh-Seven Ale, The finest drink that any bar has ever had for sale, It'll lay your whole damn world to waste, it'll make you fit and hale, It sticks to your mouth like library paste, With a stronger kick than toxic waste, There's nothing that you'll ever taste Like Three-Oh-Seven Ale!
Rotten Robin 01:55
Introduction (to the tune of "Greensleeves"): Alas, my love, to me wrong you've done, you've interrupted my joy and fun, You dropped me into that acid vat -- I'll get you back, you dirty bat. Green hair, 'tis such a fright, my lips too red, my skin too white, My purple suit, it looks so cute, but not so distinct as my green hair. Tweedle-ee deedle-ee deet, tweedle-ee deedle-ee deet, Tweedle-ee deedle-ee deet, tweedle-ee deedle-ee deet, Tweedle-ee deedle-ee deet, tweedle-ee deedle-ee deet, Tweet, tweet -- tweet-tweet! He lived on the streets where he learned to steal, Even swiped the hubs off the Batmobile. Batman thought he deserved a chance, But try to be a man wearing short green pants. Rotten Robin, Rotten Robin, Oh, Rotten Robin, you're a cotton-pickin' pain in the side. His parents got killed by the local mob, For getting caught up in a little job. Batman thought he should show some class, But Jason's first law was "Watch Your Ass." Rotten Robin, Rotten Robin, Oh, Rotten Robin, you're a poster child for infanticide. Commissioner Gordon said "The kid's a punk," Alfred found hot TVs in the Batmobile's trunk. When he put in a stereo with a hundred-watt amp, They wondered if they had the Jason from that camp. He followed the Joker one dark day, And got caught -- funny how it works that way. So here ends the story of a damn rude teen, Wrapped around a barrel of nitroglycer-een. Rotten Robin, Rotten Robin, Oh, Rotten Robin, you'll be soaked up with a blotter tonight. Tweedle-ee deedle-ee deet, tweedle-ee deedle-ee deet, Tweedle-ee deedle-ee deet, tweedle-ee deedle-ee deet, Tweedle-ee deedle-ee deet, tweedle-ee deedle-ee deet, Tweet, tweet -- he's meat!
Life is unfair, so they tell me, Because they think I wouldn't know. They only can see a cheap gimmick On their children's favorite show. They say, "Oh, that's just foam and a wire, Attached to a green velvet sleeve, Anyone can do that" -- well, that's true, I suppose, But who else could make them believe? What can I say without you there to guide me? How else am I supposed to give? How can I sing without you there beside me? How else am I supposed to live? You could never just do the expected, I was just an idea in a bog, But you sewed up your dream and we made quite a team, Jim and Kermit, a boy and his frog. It was me, Rolph, and you, but I think that he knew There was something that you and I had. The magic we made just kept growing, And none of it ever was bad. Then came Ernie and Scooter and Gonzo, Doctor Teeth, Cookie Monster, and more. But now all of those voices are silent, And I want to go on... but what for? No one can make me what you did, No one could walk in your shoes, Nothing can make me forget you, But that's not a thing that I'd choose. I can't just let it be over, And you wouldn't want it that way, So I'll stand up and I'll face it, And, though not quite in your voice, I'll say: I will go on without you there to guide me, There's so much more I can give. Whenever I sing, you will be there beside me, As long as I keep you, you'll live. We just wanted to make people happy, I was always much more than your toy. I will never regret and I'll never forget What we had, I'll miss you, Dad, This frog and his boy.
Well, the world's in a great commotion, From the Misty Mountains back to the Shire, The Hobbits are sneakin' the One Ring From the frying pan into the Fire. "From somewhere we gotta get a hero" -- That's what the bards all sing, But they never expected the rockin' and rollin' I bring -- It's the return of the King. I got a suit of studded black leather, And my hair stays in place, of course, I got a re-forged steel electric guitar And a three-hundred-horsepower horse. No matter what I ask my Rangers, They'll do almost anything, And the ladies are waitin' for the chance to dance and sing -- At the return of the King. Well, everyone said that I was dead, Or maybe Ara-Goin' off to hide, But I just kicked back to get on track, And wait till I hit my my Stride. I got my Rangers hoppin' Down the misty murky Moria Line, And there ain't gonna be no stoppin' Till the Pellenore Fields are mine, We'll hold off the trolls and goblins, And all of the rocks they fling, Until Sam and Frodo set Gollum's bells to Ring -- And make me the King. Now, I'm supposed to marry Arwen, the Fairie Queen of the Saturday Nights, But until then, give me Eowyn And I'll blow out her Northern Lights. We'll have a celebration, And I'll take a couple years to rest, Then I'll stick around and keep an eye on things When everybody else heads West, But I'll be here if you need me, Summer, Fall, Winter and Spring, And everyone in Middle-Earth'll really rock and swing -- At the Return of the King. At the Return of the King. At the Return of the King. -- That's why they call me the King.
The Original Trilogy of Trilogies, or Ninety-Four Percent of Everything is Shit Book 1: Everything turns to shit Book 2: Everything is shit Book 3: We install plumbing Book 4: The toilet backs up Book 5: The house overflows Book 6: We save the house, but the plumber dies Book 7: The plumbing explodes Book 8: We resurrect the plumber Book 9: We discover the true meaning of shit The David Eddings Variations, or What Is This Shit? Book 1: Everything turns to shit Book 2: Everything is shit Book 3: Everyone starts shoveling Book 4: The shit dries around everyone's ankles Book 5: We call in the plumber and a back-hoe Book 6: The toilet backs up Book 7: The house overflows Book 8: The back-hoe's out of gas and the plumber's phone is in the shop Book 9: We fill the tank and fix the phone Book 10: The plumber saves the house, but is killed by the back-hoe Book 11: The plumbing explodes, taking the back-hoe with it Book 12: We search for a repairman, who must resurrect the plumber Book 13: We discover the true meaning of shit Book 14: We become one with the shit Book 15: The shit is destroyed by sending the plumbing to a nether dimension, but from now on everyone is kind of uncomfortable The Piers Anthony Variations, or Enough of This Shit Book 1: Everything turns to candy-coated shit Book 2: Candy-coated shit turns out to be intelligent and can talk Books 3-Infinity: Sounds like candy-coated shit to me
I wander along, maybe stop to look at a shell, Or a petroleum-covered seagull that's starting to smell, A hypodermic needle, some kid chewed up by a shark, It's amazing the things you can find in an Oceanside park. Look at the beautiful parklands across the key Get strip-mined down to make room for some new factory Billowing clouds of purple and orange and gray, A marble and Plexiglas monument to urban decay. Singing... A "walking along the beach while you're slitting your wrist" song, A "wiggle your toes in the sand while you're shaking your fist" song, A "Life, you're too hard on me, kindly cease and desist" song, A song about gloom, despair, and pain for a bright, sunny day. The waves bubble over the sandbar, disturbing the calm, Nearly drowning some baby too stupid to stay with his mom, The pelicans squabble and fight in the skies up above, And the noises they make remind me of the woman I love. She was everything I could desire, but she just up and left, After embezzling ten million bucks and framing me with the theft, Lost my job, lost my car, lost my house, got kicked out in the cold, And I'd call a crisis line, but the last time they put me on hold. Singing... A "walking along the beach while you're slitting your wrist" song, A "wiggle your toes in the sand while you're shaking your fist" song, A "Life, you're too hard on me, kindly cease and desist" song, A song about gloom, despair, and pain for a bright, sunny day. So I've nothing to do but just wander the beaches all day, I spent most of this morning just watching some six-year-old play, He built a sand castle four feet high, quite a noble redoubt, But he was playing inside at high tide, and he never came out. Walking the beaches all day really isn't so bad, I've gained insights on life and existence that I never had, I'm just an old piece of driftwood, weathered and wild and free, Carved into a state-motto ashtray to rot on some motel TV. Singing... A "walking along the beach while you're slitting your wrist" song, A "wiggle your toes in the sand while you're shaking your fist" song, A "Life, you're too hard on me, kindly cease and desist" song, A song about gloom, despair, and pain for a bright, sunny day.
In all things there must be balance, said my physics prof to me, And in the days of sailing ships, the ballast was the key, Some sand and garbage in the bilge are all you need at sea, But things work slightly differently when you turn in zero-gee. The ballast must be accurate to ten places, maybe more, Whether you are dodging asteroids or just going to the store. When the spaceships first used ballast, they tried everything in sight, And inert materials at first worked out all right, But when spaceships first went past light-speed, the laws of physics changed, Gravitation pulled unequally, several ships were... rearranged. They finally discovered that the ballast must float free, To go where it's most needed -- so the ballast now is me. I tried to be a Space Marine, but they wouldn't let me go, My vision was myopic, my reflexes way too... slow, And all my dreams of Space Marines and interstellar fame Were dashed to Hell by defects in my undernourished frame, But still I made it into space, although my job is dull, For now I serve as ballast sealed up inside the hull. Now inert, unliving ballast will not do the job -- instead, They've got me in a Kevlar jumpsuit, pockets lined with lead, The hyperdrive computer says where we'll need extra mass, We accelerate to F.T.L. and inertia kicks my ass, I bounce around between the seams, grabbing anything at hand, Like a plane whose one wing tears and falls, the ballast wants to land.
Well, I'm a small-town boy with a heart of gold, Not to mention heat vision and breath that's cold, I've got super strength, I'm immune to pain, But I'm weak in the knees around Lois Lane. She's got a sexy walk, and the bluest eyes; Her clothes are all painted onto her thighs. She's got great taste, so I just don't see Why she's in love with my costume, but not with me. I can change the course of rivers, bend steel in my bare hands, But none of that hokey macho stuff makes me feel any more like a man. I'm faster than a speeding bullet, I'm tougher than a moving train, But why leap a tall building in a single bound, When I'd rather jump Lois Lane. Well, I'm a nice, easy-going kind of guy, I've got mild manners and my wit is dry, But it doesn't ever seem to matter what I say, 'Cause Lois never gives me the time of day. But when I fly the city in my blue and red, She'd risk the whole world just to get me to bed, But that's not the way I want to let her get my bod, It's not making love, it's seducing God. I've told her a thousand times, we can never risk normal sex. If I lose control, we could get David Cronenberg to do the special effects, I'm faster than a speeding bullet, I'm tougher than a moving train, But why leap a tall building in a single bound, When I'd rather jump Lois Lane. Well, I'm sick of all the supervillains poking fun, Just because I'm still a virgin at age thirty-one. I don't like the names that I'm being called, I couldn't care if Lex Luthor's always been more... bald. I'd love to let Lois know the way I feel, To let her know the man underneath the steel, But she doesn't want to have a thing to do with me Unless I'm out bashing baddies in my Bee Vee Dees. I've had it with the hero biz, frustration has got me down. Why should I bother with saving the city when I'd rather be painting the town? I'm faster than a speeding bullet, I'm tougher than a moving train, But I'd throw it all away in a minute if I Could just once get the jump on Lane.
This Unicorn Song is like many you've heard, Except that I wrote it myself. It has magical forests and sweet-singing birds, And maybe a virginal elf. Now, the fifth and sixth lines never sound very good, For the forest is threatened by men, But the E.P.A. looks out for Unicorn woods, So it all ends up happy again. The Unicorn Song is a folklore tradition That goes back for many a year, With a syrupy style that I wouldn't wish on The makers of Three-Two Lite beer. There's quaint reminiscence of childhood days, And the magic that dwells in the heart, And a truckload of similar hoary clichés That aren't worth a Unicorn's fart. On a Midsummer night, when the moon shines above, He'll appear with such beauty and grace That a maiden will sigh, and forsake human love For a horse with a horn on his face. He'll lie down and settle his head in her lap, With his hard gleaming horn on her thigh -- If I were to try that, I'd prob'ly get slapped, And the chance of arrest would be high. Now, would any of you women give up your fellas For an equine with burrs, ticks, and fleas? And the horn's healing properties seem suited well as A treatment for social disease. If she's not a virgin, then she is ignored, From experienced girls they abstain. The Unicorn uses her once, then gets bored, Casanova with hooves and a mane. So listen, young women -- your virtue is pure If you love by your own heart's advice, If a Unicorn shows up at your door, be sure That you're willing to tender the price. And perhaps the mass media soon will make clear That the Unicorn's days are now rare, So, who knows? The next Unicorn Song that you hear May be sung by Bette Midler and Cher.
PQR 04:09
When the moon is dark and the night is deep, The shutters rattle and the shadows creep, The women are costly, the wine is cheap, And you can do anything but get to sleep. You know you're a different breed, And the night has what you need, Nothing else is quite as real, But it can't be seen -- you're gonna have to feel. You're staring at the ceiling and you're all alone, And through the walls you can hear them groan, And every movement and every moan Is another reminder you're on your own. Well, let me tell you, baby, that's a load of crap, Look at the window, listen for the rap, Look in my eyes, and you're in my trap -- I need a new lover and you're on tap. Everything you know is real, Even things you can't see or feel, It's a night that you won't regret -- and if you're Looking for some loving, well, You ain't seen nothing yet. Open up the door and let me in, There's a lot more here than a life of sin, The kind of a game that we both can win, Let me hold your breath, let me taste your skin. You don't need the bluest eyes, I don't need to tell you lies, I'm starving, and you're a feast, You're more than a lover -- you're meat for the Beast. You think you're stronger but I think not, You can feel your defenses start to rot, Your hands are shaking and your skin is hot, Your body betrays you, but it's all you've got. You want to hold back but you're over the line, You could never get this drunk on wine, Your eyes are hopin' for a vital sign, Your thighs are open and your throat is mine. There's a rush in every vein, After pleasure, long past pain, Solid steam and burning wet, And if you're thinking that I'm bluffing, well, You ain't seen nothing yet. Don't try asking why or how, It's too late to turn back now, The blood is pounding to your core, There's nothing left, but you're giving me more. Then you open your eyes and you're still here, With a little more wisdom, a lot less fear, The night sounds ringin' a bit more clear, Your nerves are alive, your skin is sheer. Your body's cold as an icy sheet, But deep inside there's a brand-new heat, And every breath is dry and sweet, No longer mortal, no longer meat. The beat of your heart has a different tone, You'd never believe the proof if shown, Better say goodbye to the life you've known, You may be lonely but you're not alone. The world is bigger than the things you see, And riding the edge is the place to be, Living your life for the sensory, Fearing nothing -- 'cept, maybe, me. Everything you know is real, That's the first part of the deal, Less than partner, more than pet, And if you think you've had some loving -- HA! Ain't seen nothing yet.


Original Liner Notes (very slightly tweaked):

Copious thanks from Tom to (mostly alphabetically): Barry & Sally Childs-Helton, Buck & Juanita Coulson, Murray Porath, Barb Riedel, Bill & Carol Roper, Anne Schneider, Bill & Brenda Sutton, Gretchen Van Dorn, and the works of Clive Barker and Harlan Ellison.

In real life, Tom Smith is a loan documentation clerk for a major metropolitan bank, an activity in which creativity is frowned upon. All that pent-up creativity had to come out somewhere, and here it is. Tom has the strangest sense of humor that we've encountered in a LONG time, also writes good serious songs (of which we've included a few), and has a fine voice. It hardly seems fair.

-- Bill & Gretchen

Dodeka Records would like to thank the following:

The committees of ConTraption, Marcon, and InConJunction for their assistance

Alesis for the Quadraverb and DBX for the 166 unit, without which some parts would be inaudible

Teri and Terry for all their advice

Carol, Doug, and Mrs. D for all their patience

The Alcar Group for the use of their desktop publishing system

Rob for the mike stand

Judy the K for the Saturdays off


released January 20, 1991

Vocals & Guitar: Tom Smith

Recorded live at ConTraption, MarCon, InConJunction, and Bill and Carol's living room from April to August 1990

Recording engineers: Gretchen Van Dorn, Bill Roper
Mixing engineers: Bill Roper, Gretchen Van Dorn
And how does this sound?: Carol Roper, Doug Van Dorn
Cover art: Rich (RJ Johnson)
Tired of Peter Lorre: Victoria Duntemann
Emergency audience: the Milwaukee crew

All music and lyrics © Tom Smith, except as follows:

"Curmudgeon's Son" -- music: "Johnny Be Fair" by Buffy Sainte-Marie, © Gypsy Boy Music

"Crystal Gayle Killed Frank Herbert" -- music: "Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue" by Richard Leigh, © 1976, 1977 by United Artists Music Co.

"Rotten Robin" -- music: "Rockin' Robin" by J. Thomas, © 1958 by Recordo Music Publishers

"The Worst Job There Is" -- music: "Crane Dance" by Julia Ecklar, © by Julia Ecklar




Tom Smith Ann Arbor

Weird Al with more books, JoCo with more jokes, Carlin with more Cthulhu. Since 1985, Tom Smith has been breaking hearts, minds, and laws of propriety and physics with his insane blend of sf/fantasy, Life With Computers, pop culture, politics, and puns. More than twenty albums later, he maintains the best is yet to come. ... more

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