Squeal For Me
Get back to Soul Town, you Lowboy !
This life ain’t no place for raw baritones –
Cos rock is for shrieking, not groans.
For all of you boomers – no joy.
Basses have four strings and never play cords –
Your earthquakes are cannons, not swords.
Metal might give you employ.
Growling and gabbling their horror and death –
Their technique is wheezing, not breath.
Blues are so grumpy, they cloy.
Whinging as low as the gutter, those swines –
But rock ain’t for whimpers, but whines.
Now disco’s the real McCoy
Falsetto dudes, but too poppey and lite –
They ain’t got much power, just height.
Your throbbing would really annoy.
There’s nobody rocking the joint from down there.
You rumble and roar, but we blare.
I think you’re out to destroy.
Rock is the lightning – not thunder, not blunt.
We bellow and howl, we don’t grunt.
So drop the guitar, it’s no toy,
But a hazardous tool for no baritones –
Cos if she goes off then your tremors and drones
Won’t master this Helen of Troy.
But scream at the girl and she screeches and moans,
She hollers in harmony, pumping those cones.
So save all your moping for quinoa and soy,
For rock is too out-there for subtle and coy –
Our vocals jar teeth. Your vocals jar bones.