Bleu Parachute Noose
   Slam Buckra

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(Words & Music by Slam  Buckra 
© (p) 1999 Slam Buckra, Gazooks Music/ASCAP, All rights reserved.)


And if it won't rain I'll remove all my clothing.
And if she won't sing I'll crochet her a tune
And when the dawn breaks my best picture window,
leaves my view of the world misconstrued.
It's time to unpack my blue parachute noose.

I finger-paint. She swallows her anger.
Bridgette Bardot 8 x 10 on the wall.
Tornadoes of leaves and concocted contritions.
Scoreboard carved in the stick of her broom.
Time to unpack my blue parachute noose.

I let the air out of my bald right front tire.
An inimical grin sneaks across my sweet face.
She's on the phone. She'll be home in an hour.
Sixty seconds to ignite my 59 minute fuse,
soon as I pull out my parachute noose.

The table is set. The table cloth's torn.
The candles are lit but there's nobody home.
Tennessee Ernie Ford tape is quite tangled.
Now the banjo sounds more like a flute.
It's time to unfold my blue parachute noose.

Angels of meat and potato fandango.
The streets I regret. Mea culpa hot tea.
I can't seem to shed all these blood stains and vodka.
They just fade to a fragrant chartreuse.
Another curse of my parachute noose.

Who's that corpse standing there in the mirror?
That weary hand on the neck of my guitar?
If I had the nerve I'd probably get angry.
But the landing gear's already down on this cruise
Time to take at look at my parachute noose.

On wobbly legs I execute the watusi.
Balancing 12 former lives on my head.
In a straight jacket I watch I Love Lucy.
My mind leaps through another burning hoop.
It's time to try on my blue parachute noose.

The candelabra so polished and shiny
falls from the sky without hitting a star.
Falls on my head like the sweet crown inferno.
40 planets spinning around each burning jewel.
Take a good look at this parachute noose.

Electrical waves. Metaphysical signals.
She loads her harpoon without waking the kids.
The cutting board's soaked in tears and torn snapshots.
I draw a line around the edge of my bruise.
It's just the same shape as my parachute noose.

Dead party balloons slowly float towards the bedroom.
Miller beer bottle cap pressed beneath my left heel.
Feels like an 8 millimeter film of a day dream.
Feels like a circus scene drawn by Toulouse
Feels like it's time for my parachute noose.

Tattered blond imp. Sweet grenade filled piņata.
Perfumed meat typhoon across the living room rug.
I rub my eyes but nothing will vanish.
And I can't get these stains off my boots.
Guess I'll try wiping 'em off with my blue parachute noose.

40 miles raced away in my steamed rear view mirror.
I light 40 candles as the cathedral burns down.
Out of the cave and into the frying pan.
One last ride on this comic caboose.
One last payin' job for my parachute noose.

He whittles away on the cross in the moonlight.
40 fruit bats swarm and growl round his head.
Got a small cut that just won't stop bleeding.
So he soaks it in Stoli and juice.
Time to try on his sweet parachute noose.