I Can't Do Punk

Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, my name's A F Harrold, I'm a poet and I'm going to tell you about my interesting life here.

Well
I've fallen in love with a bassist
With someone who plays bass guitar
And who also by fluke of genetics
Most oftentimes wears a bra
It's not moustachioed Geezer Butler
It's not Jack Bruce or John Paul Jones
It's not Lemmy or Paul McCartney
It's Susannah from Dead Dogs Bones
(which is a local Reading pop group I don't expect you to know about)

Aah
I'd like to write her a song to sing in her band
But her style's quite spicy, my style's quite bland
She plays sort of punk with the slap of her hand
On the side of her axe good gosh she plays grand and

Me
Well
I can do anything, reggae, ska
Country and blues, drum 'n' bass, superstar
I can play songs meant for singing in the cars
I can even do funk
But I can't do punk
No I can't do punk

I can't do punk
I can't do punk
I can't do punk

I've fallen in love with a lady bass player
Who plays the best bass that I know
Her hair is the hair of some Nepalese god
And her skin is the whiteness of snow
And her hips and thighs and her beautiful eyes
And the rings on her fingers oh the image just lingers
And my cheek kind of rests on the breasts of her chest
When her cardigan slips in between
Cos there once some breasts of the ...
... poet would ever dare dream
Of
If only I could show her
If I could get to know her
Write a song sometime she could play
But although one great I've a feeling that's fate
That's going to intervene in the way
That I can write Gutbucket, I can write dirty blues
Angela Rippon's script on the six o'clock news
I can do anything from Shakespeare to funk
But I can't do punk
No I can't do punk

I can't do punk
I can't do punk
I can't do punk

Ah ah ah ah staying alive staying alive
Ah ah ah ah

I can't do punk
I can't do punk
I can't do punk

Well
I'm willing to change if I'm not to her taste
Sacrifice anything to take up my place
In her arms, in her legs
In her parents' good books
Learn to play backgammon, I will lose my looks
Put sellotape in places where the wind shouldn't go
I'd do all that if she would just show
That she too cares for my art and my mind
As much as I care for her artful behind
But I can't do punk
No I can't do punk
My boats are all sunk
And I know I'm gonna flunk
If she makes me try punk
'Cos I can't do punk
I can't do punk
Poems in the trunk
They're just a load of junk
'Cos I can't do punk
I can't do punk
I'd rather do a bunk
Live my life out as a monk
Or a vein-faced drunk
If she makes me try punk
'Cos I can't do punk
I can't do punk

So
I'll
I'll go on living
My life all on my own
Experience is showing
What experience has always shown
That the grass is often greener
And you'll always walk alone
And nothing happens ...
Just like an unhung telephone
So I'll grab my mug of horlicks
And I'll read a book alone
Tucked up all in bed
In my lonely little home
Because I can't do punk
No I can't do punk
I do not have the spite
And all of the spunk
To do punk

The energy isn't there
I really do not not care
Enough to do punk

But
Still
I love the callouses on her fingers
They make me think of Charlie Mingus
I love the callouses on her fingers
They make me think of Charlie Mingus
I love the callouses on her fingers
They make me think
Of Charlie Mingus