Текст Captain Beefheart & The Magic Band – «81» Poop Hatch

And the barbs and the berries
And the tyres and the bottles and the car-upon-rims
And the heat swims on its fenders and the dust collects and the rust of autumn surrenders into gold
Trumpet poop on the ground with peanuts, its bell was blocking an ant’s vision
And the mice played in its air-holes and valves
A ladybug crawled off its mouthpiece standing out red and blacked its wings and blew off to a flower
Its hum heard just above the ground
Black dots were hung in what turned out to be an olive tree that originally held a tree house full of a building with one small window
Birds and broken glass and tiny bits of newspaper
«My sun is free from the window,» said the god the green dabbers
Rice wires mouse tins and milk muffins
Cereal and stone, matches and masks and mace and clubs
And splintered shaft light intrigues a cricket on a dust jeweled penlet
Cobwebs collect down plaster run into a hole and find collected glass that drinks the reflection of midday afternoon midway between telegraph lines
A silver wing, a cloud, a rumbling of a cloud
A crowd of various violins strum from next door through my wall into my ear obviously artificial
Neighbors laugh through sandwiches
Harlem babies, their stomachs explode into roars
Their eyes shiny with starvation
Spreckled hula dance on my phonograph
My door rattles windy
Sand wears my rug shoe and taps on the unheard finish of an hourglass I cannot hear
A typical musician’s nest of thoughts filtered through dust speakers
«Why don’t you go home? Oh Blobby, are you great,» exclaims two lips in some jumbled rock ‘n’ roll tune and wears a spot I cannot scratch
The surface of a friend
This high book-a-friend laid on me

On the couch relaxing in the corner behind a still life pond with plenty of bugs and lily pads slurred in mud banks and boulders tin cans and raisins warped by thought
Strain on the spoon like a wheat check, check Bif, cotton popping out of his sleeve
Poop hatch open, big poop hatch with a cotton hatch, hatch holes, got to pick up the horns
But the head won’t move until it walks