Songs from
THE CHAIRLIFT
(A Libegő)
1.
once upon a time long gone
an ancient she-toad waiting
on St Lucia's hollow throne
sat faffing and pulsating
sweating in her vestibule
plying her vocation:
Lucy-Stool or simple stool
both need application
baked as hard as brick or steel
her innards like a rock bun
full of hurt and heat and heal:
how nice it'd be to drop one
her eyes pop out as if on stalks
her peepers the soul's mirror,
I grow dizzy, faint, she squawks
and glances down in terror
time stands still, the mill that drives
the blood round grinds no longer
the pulse in her old ribs still strives
now weaker and now stronger
her sinews tremble, her head slumps,
all things swim and thicken
this is the day, down in the dumps,
when heartbeat fails to quicken
now copper doorknob, cranium
meet in a full frontal,
head flops between grey thighs, no room
to lie out horizontal
she jerks back on her wooden ring
her eyes roll in their sockets
she calls on angels to take wing
and shift her with holed buckets
her stuttering embittered heart
accuses Death unbidden:
you slimy sod, your filthy art
had kept this horror hidden
nor knife nor poison you bestow,
but in sole occupation
of this foul booth, you foul below:
terminal constipation
Speak, fool: hear the ancient cry
lament the last and worst thing:
when boot comes down, and echoes die
all toads are for the bursting.
2.
ROKUS for profit's sake I spread my stall
I dealt in snow, the kind that's wet,
deposit, interest, loan and all
saw profit dwindle into debt
the wagons carrying the load
were heated and the snow, worse luck,
ran out in pools along the road
fit only for a passing duck
ALL The snow
The snow
went where snow is sure to go
away with water's ebb and flow
ROKUS I took to selling fishponds then
transporting them to Araby
the hot sun there is known by men
to have a drying property
so wisely I arranged a tank
to hold it all- but sad to say
it sprung a hole and like the bank
I saw my capital leak away
ALL The pond
The pond
Dribbled away behind beyond
One ponders it but can't respond
ROKUS I blew my money on a stud
so horsedealers became my friends
a horse sans pedigree's a dud
and pays a man no dividends
then came the order: war is war
the army's starving, men must eat!
My stud was requisitioned for
not cavalry but for raw meat
ALL A horse
A horse
May fetch a fortune on the Bourse
Or make a tasty second course
ROKUS A mine perhaps. To bags of salt
I turned my trusty sacks of dough
It cannot have been all my fault
It's there they found the new Lascaux!
Pale bison, hunters, sepia brown
left me pale and took their toll
My shares went down and down and down
Payroll transfigured to bog roll.
ALL A mine
A mine
Should yield rocksalt or serpentine
Not Neanderthal cave design
ROKUS Too few the weeks to sow or reap
For drought a single month's enough
As rainman I came none too cheap
I knew my shamanistic stuff
I knew the rites, I did my dance
The rain came without let or fail
My own fields by an evil chance
Were beaten to a pulp by hail
COMPANY The rain
The rain
May speed and prosper fields of grain
Or turn to money down the drain.
ROKUS I lost the works, I lost the mill,
insolvency destroyed them all
To bulls and bears I took my till
on Wall Street I employed them all
You wheel, you deal, you rack your brains
You calculate on fine projection,
Then comes the crash, all that remains
Is your poor beggarstaff collection.
ALL The staff
The staff
Attends upon the falling graph
And writes the dealer's epitaph
ROKUS A life's not long enough to mourn
the hopes that daily flail or fail
What hope of profit's not forlorn?
What prospect in a fairy-tale?
What use in lying abjectly,
in sugaring pills of rejection?
what profit does a beggar see
in his beggarstaff collection?
ALL The staff
The staff
Pose as you will for the photograph
The staff of fate has the last laugh.
ROKUS A life of shreds and patches spent
Upon the road, along the way
To luckier men in merriment
A running target, easy prey-
A bowl of lentils for his grub
His ever-mulish wife in tow
His luck runs out and there's the rub:
His time is up and he must go.
ALL The staff
The staff
The beggar's staff's the only staff
To write the poor sod's epitaph.
3.
justice naked, made to measure
whipping by a bruiser,
gypsy life's a dubious pleasure,
birch fit for a loser
here comes the stray dog, the gypsy- filthy from his cradle-
comes the horse-thief, ancient fox, burglar bitch of Babel,
here he comes with that foul corpse-stench filling his whole body,
his old hag trailing by his side, sour magpie to his cubby
watch him hawk-like day and night, be vigilant to bust him,
sharp eyed keeper, booking clerk, know how not to trust him
grab his knap-sack, sort it through, frisk him for his booty,
ace of sneak-thieves on the sly, crafty tutti-frutti:
where's it hidden? cough it up! is it his? since when, man!
nicking everything, the slimy nimble-fingered fenman-
he has the bill of sale? so what! no reason to excuse him!
he has to know his place, the swine, the only way to use him!
what the market? which the stall? note it down for quittance!
what's his game, who has he fleeced, where did he get his pittance?
smash his foul mouth, knock him down and stab him in the goolies:
let him flash his calling card to all his fellow stoolies.
justice naked, made to measure
whipping by a bruiser,
gypsy life's a dubious pleasure,
birch fit for a loser
let him respect the force of law, let him feel the truncheon,
as soon as spotted tip him in the steaming dung for luncheon
feed him sometime if you like, but let him fear and blench, man
beware your every passing mood, your gamekeeper, your henchman,
make him feel you'd kick him out at any time, pursue him,
grab your pitchfork on a whim and drive its prongs right through him-
he'd have the skin from off your back, has plundered you already,
rip off those filthy rags of his, hold the bloodhounds steady,
his tattered cloak, his baggy pants- let the whole pack smell it-
let him caterwaul for life, pepper him with pellet,
thousands on the downwind trail, thousands on the pack side
there they are- two vagabonds- God blast them in the backside,
skin the buggers, skin the pair, just as they would skin you
no time to catalogue their pains, start as you'd continue
give it to them now and let them pray to priest or devil
here's the chain gang, here's the ball, here his burning hovel-
justice naked, made to measure
whipping by a bruiser,
gypsy life's a dubious pleasure,
birch fit for a loser
