We'll All Go Together When We Go
I am reminded at this point of a fellow I used to know whose name was
Henry, only to give you an idea of what a individualist he was, he spelled it
H-E-N-3-R-Y. The three was silent, you see.
Henry was financially independent, having inherited his father's tar-and-feather business, and was therefore able to devote his full time to such intellectual pursuits as writing. I particularly remember a heartwarming novel of his about a young necrophiliac who finally achieved his boyhood ambition by becoming coroner. ... (scattered laughter) The rest of you can look it up when you get home.
In addition to writing, he indulged in a good deal of philosophizing. Like so many contemporary philosophers, he especially enjoyed giving helpful advice to people who were happier than he was. And one particular bit of advice which I recall - which is the reason I bring up this whole dreary story - is something he said once, before they took him away to the Massachusetts State Home for the Bewildered.
He said: "Life is like a sewer - what you get out of it depends on what you put into it." It's always seemed to me that this is precisely the sort of dynamic, positive thinking that we so desperately need today in these trying time of crisis and universal brouhaha. And so with this in mind, I have here a modern, positive, dynamic, uplifting song, in the tradition of the great old revival hymns. This one might more accurately be termed a survival hymn. It goes like this:
When you attend a funeral
It is sad to think that sooner or
Later those you love will do the same for you
And you may have thought it tragic
Not to mention other adjec-
Tives, to think of all the weeping they will do
(But don't you worry.)
No more ashes, no more sackcloth
And an arm band made of black cloth
Will some day nevermore adorn a sleeve
For if the bomb that drops on you
Gets your friends and neighbors too
There'll be nobody left behind to grieve
And we will all go together when we go
What a comforting fact that is to know
Universal bereavement
An inspiring achievement
Yes, we all will go together when we go
We will all go together when we go
All suffused with an incandescent glow
No one will have the endurance
To collect on his insurance
Lloyd's of London will be loaded when they go
Oh we will all fry together when we fry
We'll be French fried potatoes by and by
There will be no more misery
When the world is our rotisserie
Yes, we all will fry together when we fry
Down by the old maelstrom
There'll be a storm before the calm
And we will all bake together when we bake
There'll be nobody present at the wake
With complete participation
In that grand incineration
Nearly three billion hunks of well-done steak
Oh we will all char together when we char
And let there be no moaning of the bar
Just sing out a Te Deum
When you see that I.C.B.M.
And the party will be come-as-you-are
Oh, we will all burn together when we burn
There'll be no need to stand and wait your turn
When it's time for the fallout
And Saint Peter calls us all out
We'll just drop our agendas and adjourn
You will all go directly to your respective Valhallas
Go directly, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollahs
And we will all go together when we go
Every Hottentot and every Eskimo
When the air becomes uranious
We will all go simultaneous
Yes, we all will go together
When we all go together
Yes we all will go together when we go
You are no doubt familiar with songs about the old lamplighter and the old umbrella man and the old garbage collector and all these lovable old characters who go around spreading sweetness and light to their respective communities. But, it's always seemed to me that there is one member of this happy band who does an equally splendid job, but who has never been properly recognized in song or story, and this is an attempt to remedy, at least in part, that deplorable situation.
When the shades of night are falling, Comes a fellow everyone knows. It's the old dope peddler, Spreading joy wherever he goes. Every evening you will find him, Around our neighborhood. It's the old dope peddler Doing well by doing good. He gives the kids free samples, Because he knows full well That today's young innocent faces Will be tomorrow's clientele. Here's a cure for all your troubles, Here's an end to all distress. It's the old dope peddler With his powdered happiness.
Another familiar type of love song is the passionate or fiery variety, usually in tango tempo, in which the singer exhorts his partner to haunt him and taunt him and, if at all possible, to consume him with a kiss of fire. This particular illustration of this genre is called The Masochism Tango.
I ache for the touch of your lips, dear, But much more for the touch of your whips, dear. You can raise welts Like nobody else, As we dance to the Masochism Tango. Let our love be a flame, not an ember, Say it's me that you want to dismember. Blacken my eye, Set fire to my tie, As we dance to the Masochism Tango. At your command Before you here I stand, My heart is in my hand... Yeech! It's here that I must be. My heart entreats, Just hear those savage beats, And go put on your cleats And come and trample me. Your heart is hard as stone or mahogany, That's why I'm in such exquisite agony. My soul is on fire, It's aflame with desire, Which is why I perspire when we tango. You caught my nose In your left castanet, love, I can feel the pain yet, love, Ev'ry time I hear drums. And I envy the rose That you held in your teeth, love, With the thorns underneath, love, Sticking into your gums. Your eyes cast a spell that bewitches. The last time I needed twenty stitches To sew up the gash That you made with your lash, As we danced to the Masochism Tango. Bash in my brain, And make me scream with pain, Then kick me once again, And say we'll never part. I know too well I'm underneath your spell, So, darling, if you smell Something burning, it's my heart... [hiccup] 'Scuse me! Take your cigarette from its holder, And burn your initials in my shoulder. Fracture my spine, And swear that you're mine, As we dance to the Masochism Tango.
One week of every year is designated National Brotherhood Week. This is just one of many such weeks honoring various worthy causes. One of my favorites is National Make-Fun-Of-The-Handicapped Week, which Frank Fontaine and Jerry Lewis are in charge of as you know. During National Brotherhood Week various special events are arranged to drive home the message of brotherhood - this year, for example, on the first day of the week, Malcolm X was killed,* which gives you an idea of how effective the whole thing is.
I'm sure we all agree that we ought to love one another, and I know there are people in the world who do not love their fellow human beings, and I hate people like that! Here's a song about National Brotherhood Week.
Oh, the white folks hate the black folks, And the black folks hate the white folks; To hate all but the right folks Is an old established rule. But during National Brotherhood Week, National Brotherhood Week, Lena Horne** and Sheriff Clark*** are dancing cheek to cheek. It's fun to eulogize The people you despise As long as you don't let 'em in your school. Oh, the poor folks hate the rich folks, And the rich folks hate the poor folks. All of my folks hate all of your folks, It's American as apple pie. But during National Brotherhood Week, National Brotherhood Week, New Yorkers love the Puerto Ricans 'cause it's very chic. Step up and shake the hand Of someone you can't stand, You can tolerate him if you try! Oh, the Protestants hate the Catholics And the Catholics hate the Protestants, And the Hindus hate the Moslems, And everybody hates the Jews. But during National Brotherhood Week, National Brotherhood Week, It's National Everyone-Smile-At-One-Another-Hood Week. Be nice to people who Are inferior to you. It's only for a week, so have no fear; Be grateful that it doesn't last all year!
I do have a cause, though, it is obscenity. I'm for it! (laughter) Thank you. Unfortunately, the civil liberties types who are fighting this issue have to fight it, owing to the nature of the laws, as a matter of freedom of speech and stifling of free expression and so on. But we know what's really involved: dirty books are fun! That's all there is to it. But you can't get up in a court and say that, I suppose. It's simply a matter of freedom of pleasure, a right which is not guaranteed by the Constitution, unfortunately. Anyway, since people seem to be marching for their causes these days, I have here a march for mine. It's called:
Smut!
Give me smut and nothing but!
A dirty novel I can't shut
If it's uncut
and unsubt-le.
I've never quibbled
If it was ribald.
I would devour
Where others merely nibbled.
As the judge remarked the day that he acquitted my Aunt Hortense,
"To be smut
It must be ut-
Terly without redeeming social importance."
Por-
Nographic pictures I adore.
Indecent magazines galore,
I like them more
If they're hard core.
Bring on the obscene movies, murals, postcards, neckties, samplers, stained
glass windows, tattoos, anything!
More, more, I'm still not satisfied!
Stories of tortures
Used by debauchers
Lurid, licentious and vile,
Make me smile.
Novels that pander
To my taste for candor
Give me a pleasure sublime.
Let's face it I love slime!
Old books can be indecent books,
Though recent books are bolder.
For filth, I'm glad to say,
Is in the mind of the beholder.
When correctly viewed,
Everything is lewd.
I could tell you things about Peter Pan
And the Wizard of Oz - there's a dirty old man!
I thrill
To any book like Fanny Hill,
And I suppose I always will
If it is swill
And really fil-thy.
Who needs a hobby like tennis or philately?
I've got a hobby: rereading Lady Chatterley.
But now they're trying to take it all away from us unless
We take a stand, and hand in hand we fight for freedom of the press.
In other words: Smut! I love it.
Ah, the adventures of a slut.
Oh, I'm a market they can't glut.
I don't know what
Compares with smut.
Hip, hip, hooray!
Let's hear it for the Supreme Court!
Don't let them take it away!
A considerable amount of commotion was stirred up during the past year over the prospect of a multilateral force, known to the headline writers as MLF. Much of this discussion took place during the baseball season, so the Chronicle may not have covered it, but it did get a certain amount of publicity; and the basic idea was that a bunch of us nations, the good guys, would get together on a joint nuclear deterrent force including our current friends, like France, and our traditional friends, like Germany. Here's a song about that, called the MLF Lullaby:
Sleep, baby, sleep, in peace may you slumber,
No danger lurks, your sleep to encumber.
We've got the missiles, peace to determine,
And one of the fingers on the button will be German.
Why shouldn't they have nuclear warheads?
England says no, but they all are soreheads.
I say a bygone should be a bygone,
Let's make peace the way we did in Stanleyville and Saigon.
Once all the Germans were warlike and mean,
But that couldn't happen again.
We taught them a lesson in 1918
And they've hardly bothered us since then.
So, sleep well, my darling, the sandman can linger.
We know our buddies won't give us the finger.
Heil - hail - the Wehrmacht, I mean the Bundeswehr,
Hail to our loyal ally!
M L F
Will scare Brezhnev.*
I hope he is half as scared as I!