They wander around
Like alcoholics on cheap bourbon
Or junkies on low grade dope.
Who could believe
These men are musicians?
Black, balding,
Child-like,
They surround themselves with toys––
Large toys, chrome toys...
Wooden and gourd toys,
All with just one thing in common...
They all make
Sooouuunnnd!
It all sounds crazy
‘til you really listen.
These are hyper-minded men
Who know
What's hap - pen - nen.
Like Byberry inmates
Who strut, jive, and fret
More sanely
Than the rest of us ever will.
These men can make sounds
That -- Burst our ears ––
Blast our minds ––
Explode the roof off!
It takes so much
To clear our heads
These days.
So we have these men,
These mad men making music.
They don't make money,
They don't need much
They've given up everything
For sound.