Lyrics
"Last Chiko Roll in a Run Down Tuck Shop" CD

"Last Chiko Roll in a Run Down Tuck Shop” (Di Fonzo/O'Connor)

This is a story about a grill,
a story about deep fried nations, notions, and aspirations.

We were snap frozen and deported before we were born,
destined to end our days in this linoleum gulag,
down here on the the lazy corner of Lonely and Forlorn
even them little cockroaches, they don’t drop in,
well I’m the last Chiko Roll in this run-down tuck shop.

I’m the last Chiko Roll, in this dirty bain-marie
I’m the last Chiko Roll, longing to be free
well I been stuck here since 3rd June, 1983
take a bight out of me please, put me out of my misery

The scallops are dry as cardboard,
the salad bar’s dead as the old Galaga machine
the milkshakes taste like 1977,
with the texture of cottage cheese,
and me I’m just the last Chiko Roll in this run-down tuck shop,
struggling to stay warm amongst the flies under this
dirty bain-marie.

I’m the last Chiko Roll, in this dirty bain-marie
I’m the last Chiko Roll, longing to be free
well I been stuck here since 3rd June, 1983
take a bight out of me please, put me out of my misery

There's no sense of camaraderie,
and the old queen who runs this dive has forgotten about us
her big-eared brat’s not interested in flogging oily chips,
but I’m still here, me -
the last Chiko Roll in this run-down tuck shop,
struggling to stay warm amongst the flies under this
dirty bain-marie.

I’m the last Chiko Roll, in this dirty bain-marie
I’m the last Chiko Roll, longing to be free
I’m the last Chiko Roll
can’t even got on the dole
watching the poster of the bikie moll
blu tak peeling off the wall
I’m the last Chiko Roll in this dirty old, bain-marie

 

"Living In Sin In Petersham." (Di Fonzo)

Living in sin in Petersham was so much fun
Living in sin in Petersham was so much fun

 

She was a tall and lean Teutonic queen,
with which he'd fell in love
and he was an unemployed poet,
who drank too much
they found a stray cat and called it Monkey -
spelt like monkey, sounds like donkey
and all lived together in a second floor flat,
on the Stanmore border of Petersham

 

Living in sin in Petersham was so much fun
Living in sin in Petersham was so much fun

 

They’d lay around all day & listen to,
John & Yoko’s ‘Double Fantasy’
as people downstairs,
screamed in Vietnamese and banged at the ceiling
complaining about their stereo,
complaining about them making love in their Blundstones
complaining they were drowning out
their babies screams and their talk-back radio

 

Living in sin in Petersham was so much fun
Living in sin in Petersham was so much fun

 

They didn't give a fuck about living in the flightpath
didn't give a fuck about complaining neighbours
didn't give a fuck about the fake wood paneling
they were too in love to ever clean the carpets

 

Her & he and a cat call Monkey -
spelt like monkey, sounds like donkey.
Her & he and a cat call Monkey -
spelt like monkey, sounds like donkey.

Living in sin in Petersham was so much fun
Living in sin in Petersham was so much fun.

“Sunday Mourning” (Di Fonzo)


(Written stumbling home one Sunday morn' it was a live narration that, as a poem, won the NSW Writers' Centre Inner City Life Poetry Prize. Then it became this song/poem, pong/soem bastard thing.)


Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning.

Yeah the sun's coming up on Sunday as I stumble out of Stanmore, and the cabs crawl out like cockroaches onto Enmore Rd.

As I steer myself down the spirituous sidewalk I see them search the soiled streets like Sirens for lost sailors to entice with their warm vinyl Islands, and directions to their cousin Abdul's in Surry Hills, where you can purchase a gram of Turkish delight to lull away the recovering day.

Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning.

As I pedal my feet down the street, my blindman's brain riding my body like a battered bicycle, the sick sweet stench of beer and kebab swims towards me from the bent over boy in the Commodore door as he attempts to kiss the tarmac with his intestines, like a Pope turned inside out.

The Bank Hotel’s bouncer, his bored broad shoulders bursting sluggishly through his suit, looks as fresh as the apathetic kebab that you purchase next door, as he sways from sole to sole, wishing some young Goth would get smart with him, allowing him to expel that pent up energy that bubbles inside of him like a nun's libido.

Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning.

And I veer right and roll towards Erskineville, where outside The Imperial a cornucopia of subterranean scenes, blend like Bailey's and cream, as a boy with a beer glass embedded delicately in his face boldly refuses an ambulance as he floats painlessly on beer, battery acid and testosterone, then falls flatulent and flat at the fatigued feet of a paramedic, like a drunken fish.

Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning.

And I dive through my back door as the pre-dawn clouds, black & blue as a boxer’s brain, change hue to glaring bright blue, and I escape the segue into day.”

Yeah, the sun's coming up on Sunday as I collapse on the couch like a concubine, with the kidneys of a cockroach and a liver like a stone.

Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning.

“Up Shit Creek”  (Di Fonzo) 

        

We can’t walk straight, we can’t stand up
We can’t stay in, but we can’t get to the shop
We can’t pull punches, we can’t speak out
We can’t shut up, and we cannot shout
We can’t operate any heavy machinery
We can’t understand, anything you will say to me
We can’t go to work, and we can’t ring-in sick
We can’t get across our unique brand of schtick

 

‘Cause we’re up Shit Creek without a paddle
We got no horse left, just a saddle
We’re up Shit Creek without a paddle, that’s love.
We’re up Shit Creek without a paddle
We got no horse left, just a saddle
We’re up Shit Creek without a paddle, that’s love.

 

I can’t let you stay, and screw your life up
You know that you will, and I can’t make you stop
I’ve talked to nobody, but you for ten days
I know ‘cause you’ve diarised, the communiqués
I can’t see the day and you can’t tell the nights
We’re too inebriated to turn on the lights
We can’t pay the rent and we can’t move out
We can’t be see reason ‘cause we’re too devout

 

‘Cause we’re up Shit Creek without a paddle
We got no horse left, just a saddle
We’re up Shit Creek without a paddle, that’s love.
We’re up Shit Creek without a paddle
We got no horse left, just a saddle
We’re up Shit Creek without a paddle, that’s love.

 

We still can’t walk straight, still can’t stand up
Still can’t stay in, still can’t get to the shop
We can’t pull punches, we can’t speak out
We can’t shut up, and we cannot shout
We can’t operate any heavy machinery
We can’t understand, anything you will say to me
We can’t go to work, and we can’t ring-in sick
We can’t get across our unique brand of schtick

 

‘Cause we’re up Shit Creek without a paddle
We got no horse left, just a saddle
We’re up Shit Creek without a paddle, that’s love.
We’re up Shit Creek without a paddle
We got no horse left, just a saddle
We’re up Shit Creek without a paddle, that’s love.

"interwebs fucked up everything" (Di Fonzo)

Well the interwebs fucked up everything,
and that’s the truth you know?
Yeah the interwebs fucks up everything,
I wish we could just let it go.

Before the interwebs, we all lived in a world of harmony and peace. All was perfect – the sky was forever blue.

There was no racism. Sure there was civil wars, slavery, and colonialism, but there was no racism because there was no interwebs.

And everyone who wanted to had a job because their job hadn’t been replaced by an app on the interwebs.

All was perfect, and the people we voted to be President of the free world could read and do basic mathematics. Isn’t that special? But then the interwebs fucked it.

Because the interwebs fucked up everything,
that’s the truth you know?
Yeah the interwebs fucks up everything,
I wish we could just let it go.

And the children ate of the candied air that grew on the trees, as the birds sang Led Zeppelin songs. And all the beer was free.

Then the interwebs fucked it. Made us all watch porn twelve hours a day, or maybe that’s just me, it’s hard to say. There’s this thing Red Tube, I can’t work out how to turn it off, but anyway that’s beside the point.

And Facadebook made us all friendless because we’re all competing for friends on Facadebook, like Twits.

And we have to join the groups, and the people still crying about Prince. I mean David Bowie sure, but Prince? Move on. Get over it. And George Michael - I’m not even going there.

But when Daryl Somers is gone we’ll know it was the interwebs that’s to blame. When David Hasselhoff is no longer with us we’ll be able to say that the interwebs fucked up everything, again.

And then there’s that whole thing with Putin and Trump and Cambridge Analytics and the death of journalism.

Because the interwebs fucked up everything,
that’s the truth you know?
Yeah the interwebs fucks up everything,
I wish we could just let it go.
Well the interwebs fucked up everything,
that’s the truth you know?
Yeah the interwebs fucks up everything,
I wish we could just let it go.

I gotta take a Wikileak.

"Melbourne Bitter Girl" (Di Fonzo/Rowston)

So I was touring a show about a giant worm around Melbourne, as you do, with a girl from Melbourne. She really, really hated Melbourne in a way that only a girl from Melbourne can, so I wrote down everything she said as she bitched about Melbourne, and at the airport bar I turned it into a song. A song that goes something like this...

The Hawks had won the AFL,
and she couldn’t give a shit.
She bought a pint of Melbourne Bitter,
and paid a small fortune for it.
In the morning it was sub-zero,
she had to dress like a polar bear!
but by arvo it was 35 and she was
down to her underwear.

So I called her Melbourne Bitter,
because she's my bitter, Melbourne Girl.
Yeah I called her Melbourne Bitter,
because she's my bitter, Melbourne Girl.

She went strolling down St Kilda Beach,
when a sandstorm came her way.
She slipped on sandy, broken glass,
Saying, The Palais’ not what it used to be,
in that Paul Kelly kind of way.
And Luna Park’s over-rated, without the River Caves.
The Espy’s closed for renovations
and the Grace Darling Hotel's changed.

So I called her Melbourne Bitter,
because she's my bitter, Melbourne Girl.
Yeah I called her Melbourne Bitter,
because she's my bitter, Melbourne Girl.

Why are they drinking pots, she said,
it’s like inhaling a breath!
and the other thing that shits her are all the
Melbourne women in hand-knits.
All the girls she went to school with
they still hang out two decades on,
it’s that small town mentality, you never
leave your comfort zone.

So they all call her Melbourne Bitter,
because she's our bitter, Melbourne Girl.
They call her Melbourne Bitter...

Because it's a play on words.

You see, there's a beer called Melbourne Bitter and there's the concept of being bitter, jaded and cynical about life. If I had a whiteboard I could walk you through it, but I don't so you're just going to use your imaginations.

I said, Give me a whiteboard, get me a whiteboard! But nobody listens to me anymore.

Anyway, she lives in Sydney now.

“I’ll Hold Your Hair (As You Throw Up)” (Di Fonzo)

There are many ways to tell someone that you love them very much, but where I'm from the finest is to hold back their hair as they drive the porcelain bus. This is for all those whom I've held back. 

 

I may not be rich, I may not be tough,
No I may not be wealthy, or handsome enough,
I may not be too smart or, own enough stuff

 

But baby, I’ll hold your hair, 
who’ll hold your hair, when you throw up.
Because that’s true love.

 

I may not own houses, I may not own cars,
I may not come across as a, bit of a wanker
With little prospect of ever, being a star,
But baby who’ll hold your hair, 
yeah I’ll hold your hair, when you throw up? 

 

No I may not be rich, I may not be tough,
No I may not be wealthy or handsome enough.
No I may not be too smart or, own enough stuff, 
But baby, who’ll hold your hair?
Yeah baby, I’ll hold your hair, 
As you throw up, ‘cause that’s true love.

"Smoke if You Got'em" (Di Fonzo)

So drink ‘em up kids, and smoke if you got ‘em.
Chow it down, Harry, and hurry in soon.
A wave has just risen, outside the barriers.
I’m just a clown blowing a, rough-hewn balloon.

 

While stealers are watching, behind windows of trivia,
For paranoid fishermen, dragging lagoons,
Of somebody foreclosing, sale upon India,
While landlords are renting out your, panic room.

 

So drink ‘em up kids, and smoke if you got ‘em.
Chow it down, Harry, and hurry in soon.
A wave has just risen, outside the barriers.
I’m just a clown blowing a, rough-hewn balloon.

 

Two clowns in a cabinet, arresting a letterpress.
Three clowns in a taxicab, humming this tune.
Four clowns in a subway, sniffing for fingerprints,
On one fool quoting Baudelaire and, drunk on cheap goon.

 

With a sentient fridge, in a room full of gelignite,
of a melancholy acrobat, swinging from the harpoon,
of a smack-addled rabbi, pining for Arafat,
Through a Baptist mandala, spelling out doom.

 

So drink ‘em up kids, and smoke if you got ‘em.
Chow it down, Harry, and hurry in soon.
A wave has just risen, outside the barriers.
I’m just a clown blowing a, rough-hewn balloon.

These are dark days of debt, despots and arrogance.
Dark days of heartlessness in, harpies and hoons.
So drink em up kids, and smoke if you got em,
You’re just a clown blowing a, rough-hewn balloon.

Rough-hewn balloon, rough-hewn balloon,

rough-hewn balloon, rough-hewn balloon.

  • w-tbird

Home page for the Suburban Bukowskis band, and their singer/songwriter - poet, playwright, puppeteer and journalist Benito Di Fonzo. Creating the finest hand-rolled music, theatre and comedy since brunch