Pretty Clothes

 

I’ve been floating in 1975
Between Mick Jagger and Stayin’ Alive
Cause that old Beatles haircut just would not do
Said Johnny Rotten so I died it blue

With old bell bottoms from my mom
Put on my shades and I’m Elton John
With platform shoes so fine and showy
I must be Prince or David Bowie

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Verse 2:

I’m feeling a little bit down these days
I dress like John Lennon in his heroin phase
My sister’s dressed up just like dead great eccentrics
Somewhere between Joplin and Hendrix

My mother she laughs at my short little skirts
And wonders why I rip all my tee shirts
Searching the wardrobe for that perfect blouse
And if I don’t find it well I don’t leave the house

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Verse 3:

On a shopping spree of the Lower East Side
I pack all my bags as I swallow my pride
I’ll haggle I’ll bargain I’ll buy it by mail
Just blindfold and guide me to a sign that says sale

Lookin’ all over for my pretty stuff
And no matter how much its never enough
Cause I’m lookin so fine from my head to my toes
I never have money but I always have clothes

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Chorus

Go go boots seersucker suits
Consult my wardrobe dye my roots
Bell bottom blues front page news
Psycho psychedelic hues
Color me silver color me gold
But never mess my pretty clothes

I’ve been a bit braindead this weekend so decided to post lyrics from a song from my old band Sisters Grimm.

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Who Would Have Thunk It?

Sure 16 marks a rocky start
Death takes it’s many victims
Lemmy, Bowie, Haggerty, Glenn
Frey and Alan Rickman
It all seems unbelievable
As we watch heroes fall
Who would have thought that Keith Richards
Would have outlived them all

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The Sorrows of The Mediocre

Poor poor Ralphie was a man
Who spent his life an also-ran
And though he tried with all his might
The ‘almost perfect but not quite’
Was heard as a nonstop refrain
And soon to be his sad life’s bane

School passed by predictably
With his average solid B
Involved in sports but to his nettle
His room adorned with silver medals
He never made the football team
Or dated the homecoming queen

He settled with a decent gal
But thought her more a sort of pal
Though long of leg and slim of waist
Just something off about her face
And so she joined him for the ride
And she too bridesmaid never bride

And Ralph he wrote though not the best
He cursed his marginal success
At wisdom some found somewhat sage
Though buried on an obscure page
But all that found it surely would
Agree that it was ‘pretty good’

And so with all his life to shoulder
The sorrows of the mediocre
He found himself long in the tooth
And simply figured what’s the use
“I never will find fame or wealth
I might as well just off myself

Perhaps when they call me ‘the late’
These silly fools will think I’m great”
And so after a few events
Which ended up as failed attempts
Ralphie took his final bow
Though none really remember how

But as he went heavenward soaring
Happy to see the whole world mourning
In aftermath of his sad death
To heaven’s gate with arms outstretched
Angels with their golden books
Gazed towards him with beatific looks

But as he reached St. Peter’s side
They merely told him step aside
And so he became quite downhearted
When he saw why those gates parted
He would have waited if he’d known he’d
Die on the same day as Bowie.

'If you couldn't get into clubs, what makes you think you can get in here?'

‘If you couldn’t get into clubs, what makes you think you can get in here?’

Oh, Alice You Remind Me Of Manhattan

I think I was 17 when I fell in love with Manhattan. Unlike the closed minded Brooklyn community in which I grew up, it was there, among the freaks and the weirdos, that I felt truly accepted.

Give us your different, your strange,
Your misguided, your misunderstood

Our apartments like cubicles, piled one on top of the other, outrageously painted, posters on the wall, not unlike a college dormitory. People wonder, why put up with the crowding, the masses, the limited amount of space? But it is here where community grows strong, it is here where we know this is a small price to pay for living in the greatest city in the world.

My neighbors, the T.V. hooker with the heart of gold, the rock star, the guy who sells comic books on St. Marks, the homeless guy who sells words of wisdom at 25 cents a pop, and Mr. Schindleheim at 3rd and C who makes the city’s best bagels, and you know in NYC, that is saying a lot.

Give us your tired, your poor
Your huddled masses yearning to be free

If I can make it here, I’ll make it anywhere

But the best is the night time, when the energy of the street beckons you. And so we emerge from our tiny cages, in our platform boots, our tight jeans, our short fur jackets, the beautiful wrecks, the 5 AM perfection, the glitter in the gutter, the screwed up eyes and screwed down hair-dos

Oh, Alice, you remind me of Manhattan
The seedy and the snaz, the shoe boys and the satins
Like a throne made of gilt that too many johns have sat in

I’ll never forget the last morning, as the grey light of day descended over a city still asleep, or maybe still awake from the night before, he left my bedroom, leaving me a wreck, crying on the disheveled bed, saying goodbye to a city I would never see again.

Now I live in Los Angeles, with all it’s sharp angles, it’s elegant curves, it’s austere white mansions, it’s eminence front, and it’s perpetual blue skies and sunshine, where you could almost forget the heavy layer of smog that hovers outside the atmosphere, where I look at the people around me
and wonder
if they know what it’s like
to love a city.

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Inspired by: http://spacemonkeytwins.wordpress.com/2014/01/18/brooklyn-a-love-story/