Frank Zappa Album

Frank Zappa (lead guitar, vocals)
Ike Willis (guitar, vocals)
Mike Keneally (guitar, synthesizer, vocals)
Bobby Martin (keyboards, vocals)
Ed Mann (percussion)
Walt Fowler (trumpet)
Bruce Fowler (trombone)
Paul Carman (alto saxophone)
Albert Wing (tenor saxophone)
Kurt McGettrick (baritone saxophone)
Scott Thunes (bass)
Chad Wackerman (drums)
Eric Buxton (vocals)

Elvis has just left the building --
Those are his footprints, right there
Elvis has just left the building --
To climb up that heavenly stair


He gave away Cadillacs once in a while;
Had sex in his underpants,
Yes, he had style!
Bell-bottom jump-suits?
That's them in a pile,
But he don't need'em now,
'Cause he's makin' Jesus smile!


Elvis has just left the building --
Those are his footprints, right there
Elvis has just left the building --
To climb up that heavenly stair


The Angels all love him,
He brings them relief
With droplets of moisture
From his handkerchief!
Cher'bim 'n ser'phim
Whizz over his head --
Jesus, let him come back!
We don't want Elvis dead.


Elvis has just left the building --
Those are his footprints, right there
Elvis has just left the building --
To climb up that heavenly stair


So what if he looks like a wart-hog in heat?
He knows we all love him --
We'll just watch him eat,
So take down the foil
From his hotel retreat,
And bring back The King
For the man in the street!


Elvis has just left the building --
Those are his footprints, right there
Elvis has just left the building --
To climb up that heavenly stair
He's up there with Jesus, in a big purple chair

Frank Zappa (lead guitar, vocals)
Ike Willis (guitar, vocals)
Mike Keneally (guitar, synthesizer, vocals)
Bobby Martin (keyboards, vocals)
Ed Mann (percussion)
Walt Fowler (trumpet)
Bruce Fowler (trombone)
Paul Carman (alto saxophone)
Albert Wing (tenor saxophone)
Kurt McGettrick (baritone saxophone)
Scott Thunes (bass)
Chad Wackerman (drums)
Eric Buxton (vocals)

On the Plane of the Baritone Women
They talk low
'Bout stuff they know,
They sing "Oooh!"
And laugh at you
Ah-ha-ha-ha-hah!
If you can't
IF YOU CAN'T
Do it too
DO IT TOO
Ah-ha-ha-ha-hah!


They sing "Li-li-li-li!"
They sing "Lo-lo-lo-lo!"
The man carry purses
Wherever they go


Junior executives.
All in a row,
Watch the Baritone Women
Do the Baritone show
Ah-ha-ha-ha-hah!


They sing about wheat;
They sing about corn;
They sing about places
Where women was born


They sing about hate!
They sing about fear!
It seems like they all got
A pretty good ear
Ah-ha-ha-ha-hah!


They sing it in harmony
Not often heard
With a big ol' cadenza
On every long word


They keep it as low
As they possibly can,
And sometimes they walk
Like an E-GYP-TIAN
Ah-ha-ha-ha-hah!


They do choreography
Still more unique!
They leave their legs open
Whenever they speak!


They roll their eyes upward.
And over again,
And slam their legs closed
When they sing about mmen!


Those Baritone Women!
They are not your friend!
You will make a mistake
If you go there again!

Frank Zappa (lead guitar, vocals)
Ike Willis (guitar, vocals)
Mike Keneally (guitar, synthesizer, vocals)
Bobby Martin (keyboards, vocals)
Ed Mann (percussion)
Walt Fowler (trumpet)
Bruce Fowler (trombone)
Paul Carman (alto saxophone)
Albert Wing (tenor saxophone)
Kurt McGettrick (baritone saxophone)
Scott Thunes (bass)
Chad Wackerman (drums)
Eric Buxton (vocals)

You are the girl
Somebody invented
In a grim little office
On Madison Ave.


They were specific
They made you terrific:
Red lips;
Blue eyes;
Blonde hair;
Un-wise --
You're All-American,
And, darling, they said so


YOU'D TAKE ANY KIND OF PAIN FROM ME,
WOULDN'T YOU, BABY?
YOU'D TAKE ANY KIND OF PAIN FROM ME,
WOULDN'T YOU, BABY?
SINCE YOU HAVEN'T GOT A BRAIN,
LET ME JUST EXPLAIN:
ANY KIND OF PAIN
IS NEVER A MAYBE


Her head's full of bubbles;
Her nose is petite!
She looks like she never
Gets nothin' to eat!


She dines with actors,
'N Wall Street characters:
Dull talk;
Nice clothes --
See her?
She blows --
She's so important
'Cause he gets to do talk shows --


AND SHE'D TAKE ANY KIND OF PAIN FROM ME,
WOULDN'T YOU, BOBBY?
SHE'D TAKE ANY KIND OF PAIN FROM ME,
WOULDN'T YOU, BOBBY?
SINCE YOU HAVEN'T GOT A NAME,
LET ME JUST EXPLAIN:
ANY KIND OF PAIN
IS PROBABLY HER HOBBY


She has moves up now;
She's come a long way --
They give her bunches
Of words she can say!


When she's in a bold mood,
"Confinement Loaf" sounds good --
That's right,
She's wrong!
Let's end
Her song


(It seems she's everywhere
We just can't escape her --
Is this a miracle of pure evolution?
And all the yuppie boys, they dream they will rape her --
She brings the 80's
To a thrilling conclusion!)


YES, SHE'S EVERY BIT AS TAME AS ME,
ISN'T SHE TENDER?
YES, SHE'S EVERY BIT AS LAME AS ME,
LET US REMEMBER,
SHE GETS ONLY HALF THE BLAME
ONLY HALF THE BLAME
ONLY HALF THE BLAME
UNLESS WE EXTEND HER --

Frank Zappa (lead guitar, vocals)
Ike Willis (guitar, vocals)
Mike Keneally (guitar, synthesizer, vocals)
Bobby Martin (keyboards, vocals)
Ed Mann (percussion)
Walt Fowler (trumpet)
Bruce Fowler (trombone)
Paul Carman (alto saxophone)
Albert Wing (tenor saxophone)
Kurt McGettrick (baritone saxophone)
Scott Thunes (bass)
Chad Wackerman (drums)
Eric Buxton (vocals)

(The San Clemente Magnetic Deviation)

One 'n one is eleven!
Two 'n two is twenty-two!
Won't somebody kindly tell me,
What's the government is tryin' t' do...
Dickie's just to tricky
For a chump like me to use
You take that sub-committee seriously, boy
You could get a seizure from the evenin' news


Millions 'n millions of dollars...
Much as he might need...
He could open up a chain of motels, people
On the highway, yes indeed!


Quadrafonic desperation!
Just might be some confinement loaf all up under your bed
If you just might pinch a little loaf in your slumber
The FBI gonna get your number
THE FBI
GONNA GET YOUR NUMBER
THE FBI
GONNA GET YOUR NUMBER
etc.


Tryin' not to worry
Tryin' not to care
But you know, I get delighted
When that soup goes over there


Can't have no private conversation
Nowhere
In the USA
Can't wait 'til the rest of the people all over the the world
Find out their government
Is just the same ol' way
Every day...


The gangster stepped right up,
'N kissed him on the lips good-bye
Made him a cocksucker by proxy, yes he did,
An' he didn't even bat an eye!


The man in the White House -- oooh!
He's got a conscience black as sin!
There's just one thing I wanna know --
How'd that asshole ever manage to get in?

Frank Zappa (lead guitar, vocals)
Ike Willis (guitar, vocals)
Mike Keneally (guitar, synthesizer, vocals)
Bobby Martin (keyboards, vocals)
Ed Mann (percussion)
Walt Fowler (trumpet)
Bruce Fowler (trombone)
Paul Carman (alto saxophone)
Albert Wing (tenor saxophone)
Kurt McGettrick (baritone saxophone)
Scott Thunes (bass)
Chad Wackerman (drums)
Eric Buxton (vocals)

They got lies so big
They don't make a noise
They tell 'em so well
Like a secret disease
That makes you go numb


With a big ol' lie
And a flag and a pie
And a mom and a bible
Most folks are just liable
To buy any line
Any place, any time


When the lie's so big
As in Robertson's case,
(That sinister face
Behind all the Jesus hurrah)


Could result in the end
To a worrisome trend
In which every American
Not "born again"
Could be punished in cruel and unusual ways
By this treacherous cretin
Who tells everyone
That he's Jesus' best friend


When the lie's so big
And the fog gets so thick
And the facts disappear
The Republican Trick
Can be played out again
People, please tell me when
We'll be rid of these men!


Just who do they really
Suppose that they are?
And how did they manage to travel as far
As they seem to have come?
Were we really that dumb?


People, wake up
Figure it out
Religious fanatics
Around and about
The Court House, The State House,
The Congress, The White House


Criminal saints
With a "Heavenly Mission" --
A nation enraptured
By pure superstition


When the lie's so big
And the fog gets so thick
And the facts disappear
The Republican Trick
Can be played out again
People, please tell me when
We'll be rid of these men!

Frank Zappa (lead guitar, vocals)
Ike Willis (guitar, vocals)
Mike Keneally (guitar, synthesizer, vocals)
Bobby Martin (keyboards, vocals)
Ed Mann (percussion)
Walt Fowler (trumpet)
Bruce Fowler (trombone)
Paul Carman (alto saxophone)
Albert Wing (tenor saxophone)
Kurt McGettrick (baritone saxophone)
Scott Thunes (bass)
Chad Wackerman (drums)
Eric Buxton (vocals)

Rhymin' Man,
Tall and tan,
Rhyme or reason,
Play your hand --
Rhyme on this -- rhyme on that
Oh, you naughty Democrat!


They say when Doctor King got shot,
Jesse hatched an evil plot,
Dipped his hands in the Doctor's blood,
'N rubbed his shirt like playin' with mud
Looked around for all the press
'N said: "Check me out, my name is Jess!
I'll be known from towns 'n farms --
Doctor King died in my arms!"


Rhymin' Man,
Tall and tan,
Rhyme or reason,
Play your hand --
Rhyme on this -- rhyme on that
Oh, you naughty Democrat!


A few years later, legend says,
Rhymin' man made a run for Prez
Farrakhan made him a clown,
Over there near Hymie-Town
Said he was a diplomat --
Hobbin' an-a-knobbin' with Arafat
Castro was simpatico,
But the U.S. voters, they said: "No!"


Rhymin' Man,
Tall and tan,
Rhyme or reason,
Play your hand --
Rhyme on this -- rhyme on that
Oh, you naughty Democrat!


Okay, here we go again!
Rhymin' Man says he's your friend
Any fool can make a rhyme --
Cowboys do it all the time
People say: "Now he's mature!"
Cowboys rhyme that with horse manure


Horse manure!
That's for sure!
You been cheatin' --


We kept score!
Are you "this"?
Or are you "that"?
Oh, you naughty
Democrat!

Frank Zappa (lead guitar, vocals)
Ike Willis (guitar, vocals)
Mike Keneally (guitar, synthesizer, vocals)
Bobby Martin (keyboards, vocals)
Ed Mann (percussion)
Walt Fowler (trumpet)
Bruce Fowler (trombone)
Paul Carman (alto saxophone)
Albert Wing (tenor saxophone)
Kurt McGettrick (baritone saxophone)
Scott Thunes (bass)
Chad Wackerman (drums)
Eric Buxton (vocals)

The Surgeon General, Doctor Koop
S'posed to give you all the poop
But when he's with P.M.R.C.
The poop he's scoopin'
Amazes me


C-Span showed him, all dressed up
In his phoney Doctor God get-up
He looked in the camera and fixed his specs
'N gave a little lecture
'Bout anal sex


He says it is not good for us
We just can't be promiscuous
He's a docter -- he should know
It's the work of the Devil, so
Girls, don't blow!


Don't blow Jimmy, don't blow Bobby
Get yourself another hobby
(If Jesus practiced medicine
I'm sure he'd do it
Just like him)


Is Doctor Koop a man to trust?
It seems at least that Reagan must
(But Ron's a trusting sort of guy --
He trusts Ed Meese
I wonder why?)


The A.M.A. has just got caught
For doin' stuff it shouldn't ought
All they do is lie and lie
Where's Doctor Koop?
He's standin' by


Surgeon General? What's the deal?
Is your epidemic real?
Are you leaving something out?
Something we can't talk about?
A little green monkey over there
Kills a million people?
That's not fair!
Did it really go that way?
Did you ask the C.I.A.?
Would they take you serious,
Or have THEY been
Promiscuous

Frank Zappa (lead guitar, vocals)
Ike Willis (guitar, vocals)
Mike Keneally (guitar, synthesizer, vocals)
Bobby Martin (keyboards, vocals)
Ed Mann (percussion)
Walt Fowler (trumpet)
Bruce Fowler (trombone)
Paul Carman (alto saxophone)
Albert Wing (tenor saxophone)
Kurt McGettrick (baritone saxophone)
Scott Thunes (bass)
Chad Wackerman (drums)
Eric Buxton (vocals)

Monologue by Ike Willis

Rico! Youngblood! Wake up!
Prohibition is over, but the country's still a mess!
They need us out there!
We've got some cleaning up to do --
especially when it comes to
THIS GUY...
Get those sport coats on with the big lapels...
They're back -- they're fashionable again!
Okay -- let's look at some mug-sheets
of the suspects from the 80's...


ADMIRAL POINDEXTER!
Get back on Felix The Cat where you belong!
Get the damn pipe out of your mouth!
You're history, you're gone!


OLIVER NORTH!
No more "Secret Government" for you, buddy!
You're over! you're trough!


BILL CASEY!
You're dead!


BUSH!
You're still a wimp --
I'm sorry -- you're history!


DEAVER! NOFZIGER!
You're crooks! Book 'em Dan-o!
Dan-o? How'd he get in the show?
Get outta here!


REAGAN!
You're asleep! Wake up!
The country's in a mess!
You're history anyway, buddy --
You're meat -- you're trough!
You're vapor -- you're baloney without the mayo!
You're outta here, buddy --
In fact, it's Robin Leach!
"I don't know why..."


Hey, fellas -- take me to the bridge!
I want it now!
Rico! Youngblood!
Let's get outta here!
It's all over!

"He's white, Jim . . . "

Why don't you like me?
Why don't you like me?
Why don't you like me?
Am I really that bad?
HE'S BAD, HE'S BAD, HE'S BAD

"I think you're a jerk! I'm moving from you!"
"Make me a sandwich."
"Moving to Venice."
"I'll be black."
(Jack! What?)
"Still white, Jim . . . "

I hate my mother
I hate my father
I AM my sister . . .
And Jermaine is a negro!
A NEGRO! A NEGRO! A NEGRO!

"I thought he looked good -- what happened to you?"
"Please read this pamphlet."
"I'm so BAD!"

You take the monkey, I'll take the llama,
We'll have a party: get me a Pepsi --
Michael is Janet, Janet is Michael --
I'm so confused now --
Who is Diana?

He's oxygenated
His nose is deflated
And he thinks he looks good to you
He thinks he looks good to you

Ike: Oh, I'm sorry . . .
FZ: This is supposed to be the part where I . . . name people who are not . . . related in any particular way to . . . Michael Jackson . . . so . . . oh, let's see now, who could it be . . . uh . . . What's your name . . . ? His name is Bob? Bob is not the illegitimate son of Michael Jackson, take it from me . . .

Billy Jean is not Mr. Bob
Arnold Silvestri . . . (Ha ha ha!)
Billy Jean isn't Arnold Silvestri
Jeanne Kirkpatrick . . .
Billy Jean is not Kirkpatrick
Lando Calrissian . . .

Give me oxygen
Give me oxygen
Give me oxygen
Box o' turds

FZ: That's right, a box o' turds!

Frank Zappa (lead guitar, vocals)
Ike Willis (guitar, vocals)
Mike Keneally (guitar, synthesizer, vocals)
Bobby Martin (keyboards, vocals)
Ed Mann (percussion)
Walt Fowler (trumpet)
Bruce Fowler (trombone)
Paul Carman (alto saxophone)
Albert Wing (tenor saxophone)
Kurt McGettrick (baritone saxophone)
Scott Thunes (bass)
Chad Wackerman (drums)
Eric Buxton (vocals)

While I was down in W.D.C.
Certain folks were not glad to see me
I just tried to get out the vote
But some little weasel must 'a dropped 'em a note


It said:
"Check out the politics
Practiced by this oaf
And if they ain't just right
Feed him Confinement Loaf."


They wanne be
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
Feedin' 'em
LOAF...loaf
(3X)

[No lyrics]

[No lyrics]

Frank Zappa (lead guitar, vocals)
Ike Willis (guitar, vocals)
Mike Keneally (guitar, synthesizer, vocals)
Bobby Martin (keyboards, vocals)
Ed Mann (percussion)
Walt Fowler (trumpet)
Bruce Fowler (trombone)
Paul Carman (alto saxophone)
Albert Wing (tenor saxophone)
Kurt McGettrick (baritone saxophone)
Scott Thunes (bass)
Chad Wackerman (drums)
Eric Buxton (vocals)

Jezebel Boy!
You know all the guys
In the Sheriff's Patrol
They leave you alone
When they round up the whores
Up on Hollywood Boulebard


Sometimes that nasty D.A.
Thinks he needs his name
In the paper again --
That's usually when
The short-pants girls
Have to take a ride
With a friendly policeman


But the Jezebel Boy
On the corner by the Technicolor processing plant
Stands by the light;
Waitin' through the night
Waitin' for that distinguished-looking
Wilshire District Gentleman
With snow-white hair,
To drive up in his Lincoln,
And whisk away the Jezebel Boy


There he goes now!
Old Ralph will make him put that wretched
Sausage in his mouth again


Another day,
Another sausage --
Jezebel Boy

Joe:


These executives have plooked the fuck out of me
And there's still a long time to go before I've
Paid my debt to society
And all I ever really wanted to do was
Play the guitar 'n bend the string like
Reent-toont-teent-toont-teent-toont-teenooneenoonee

I've got it
I'll be sullen and withdrawn
I'll dwindle off into the twilight realm
Of my own secret thoughts
I'll lay on my back here 'til dawn
In a semi-catatonic state
And dream of guitar notes
That would irritate
An executive kinda guy . . .

Well, I guess that one did the trick
If they only coulda heard it
Half-a-dozen of 'em woulda strangled
While they was suckin' on each other's dick
But that was only a bunch of imaginary
Notes I played
Just a little extra somethin'
To keep me goin' from day to day
That's okay
I'll be gettin' outta here pretty soon
Then I won't have to live
In this ugly fuckin' room
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
Outside now . . .

[No lyrics]

Frank Zappa (lead guitar, vocals)
Ike Willis (guitar, vocals)
Mike Keneally (guitar, synthesizer, vocals)
Bobby Martin (keyboards, vocals)
Ed Mann (percussion)
Walt Fowler (trumpet)
Bruce Fowler (trombone)
Paul Carman (alto saxophone)
Albert Wing (tenor saxophone)
Kurt McGettrick (baritone saxophone)
Scott Thunes (bass)
Chad Wackerman (drums)
Eric Buxton (vocals)

What's a girl like you
Doin' in a Motel like this?


"I left my place after midnight,
When I first got the call...
The escort service I work for
Said you wanted it ALL!"


Well, you came to the right place -- this is it!
I got the most sanctified johnson in all 'o Louisiana!
No shit!


"How true that is!"


How true, indeed Llama!


"The other whores at the service said
You helped fulfull their need!
I like to get right down...
Do you like to get right down too?"


Well, what did you have in mind?


"Well, I get off being spoo-ed upon
By hypocritical TV Evangelists
With close ties to the Republican Party,
While Ed Meese wipes his ass
On the U.S. Constitution, screamin'...


'I don't think so --
can't remember --
I just could never do that --'"


That gets me so hot I could scream:
'Can't remember: don't remember who...
Wrote the memo, or to whom it's to...'


Your escort service is real far-out 'n groovy --
Ever been to the Texas Motel?
Let me take you dow-how-how-how-how-how-hownnnnn!


Magic Jesus by the bed,
Wall mounted TV screen,
My church plugged into the gravy train,
And Reagan keeps me clean!


What kind of girl?
What kind of girl would suck his rod?
What kind of girl?
What kind of girl would suck his rod?
(A lazy prostitute!)
We wouldn't blow you just because you know "GOD"!
What kind of girl?
What kind of girl would suck his rod?


This unfortunate little vixen wouldn't let just ANYBODY
Spoo all over her lap --
She wants an ignorant Cracker Evangelist
Who's reciting all that crapp...

There's an ugly little wasel 'bout three-foot nine
Face puffed up from cryin' 'n lyin'
'Cause her sweet little hubby's
Suckin' prong part time
(In the name of The Lord)


Get a clue, little shrew
Oh yeah, oh yeah
Jesus thinks you're a jerk


Did he really choose Tammy to do His Work?
Robertson says that he's The One
Oh sure he is,
if Armageddon
Is your idea of family fun,
An' he's got some planned for you!
(Now, tell me that ain't true)


Now, what if Jimbo's slightly gay,
Will Pat let Jimbo get away?
Everything we've heard him say
Indicated that Jim must pay,
(And it just might hurt a bit)
But keep that money rollin' in,
'Cause Pat and naughty Jimbo
Can't get enough of it


Perhaps it's their idea
Of an Affirmative Action Plan
To give White Trash a 'special break';
Well, they took those Jeezo-bucks and ran
To the bank! To the bank! To the bank! To the bank!
And every night we can hear them thank
Their Buddy, up above
For sending down his love
(While you all smell the glove)


Jim and Pat should take a pole
(Right up each saintly glory-hole),
With tar and feathers too --
Just like they'd love to do to you


('Cause they think you are bad --
And they are very mad)


'Cause some folks don't want prayer in school!


(We'd need an ark to survive the drool
Of Micro-publicans, raised on hate,
And 'Jimbo-Jimbo' when they graduate)


Conviced they are 'The Chosen Ones' --
And all their parents carry guns,
And hold them cards in the N.R.A.
(With their fingers on the triggers
When they kneel and pray)


With a Ku-Klux muu-muu
In the back of the truck,
If you ain't Born Again,
They wanna mess you up, screamin':
"No abortion, no-siree!"
"Life's too precious, can't you see!"
(What's that hangin' from the neighbor's tree?
Why, it looks like 'colored folks' to me --
Would THEY do THAT...seriously?)


Imagine if you will
A multi-millionaire Television Evangelist,
Saved from Korean Combat duty by his father, a U.S. Senator


Studied Law --
But is not qualified to practice it


Father of a "love child"
Who, in adulthood, hosts the remnants
Of papa's religious propaganda program


Claims not to be a "Faith Healer",
But has, in the past,
Dealt stearnly with everything from hemorrhoids to hurricanes


Involved with funding for a 'secret war' in Central America
Claiming Ronald Reagan and Oliver North as close friends


Involved in suspicous 'tax-avoidance schemes',
(Under investigation for 16 months by the I.R.S.)


Claims to be a MAN OF GOD;
Currenty seeking the United States Presidency,
Hoping we will all follow him into --
The Twilight Zone


What if Pat gets in the White House,
And suddenly --
The rights of 'certain people' disappear
Mysteriously?


Now, wouldn't that sort of qualify
As an American Tragedy?
(Especially if he covers it up, sayin'
"Jesus told it to me!")


I hope we never see that day,
In The Land of The Free --
Or someday will we?
Will we?


And if you don't know by now,
The truth of what I'm tellin' you,
Then, surely I have failed somehow --


And Jesus will think I'm a jerk, just like you --
If you let those TV Preachers
Make a monkey out of you!


I said:
"Jesus will think you're a jerk"
And it will be true!


There's an old rugged cross
In the land of cutton --
It's still burnin' on somebody's lawn
And it still smells rotten


Jim and Tammy!
Oh, baby!
You gotta go!
You really got to go