Free Stylin' with Cousin Mel

30 July 2006

Freestylin’ With Cousin Mel

By Scott Murphy and Jeff Ludlum

Stripes blessed by zebras and homeless cats
Sun beating down from above, gotta get me my hat.
And glasses, squinting is too much strain,
Happy to be out and about cruising d'town after all that damn rain.
The puddles muddle my brain like Cheese Whiz,
Haven't felt this free since getting myself outta that theatre after Les Miz.
Pitter patter back out to the streets, yellow signs
I make my way down the lane, knowing we all hiding crimes, some aweful, some Benign.
Some chill, some fly, some meant for you, some meant for me,
Thinking 'bout it all, I just know I wanna see, wanna be, wanna take it time to time to the extreme.
Then, like a breeze, she sneaks up on me from behind and whispers in my ear,
"Why don't you hush your lovamouth and get me another beer?" (and don't sneer).
Or career, your path makes no sense to me - no rhyme, no reason,
We been sitting here talking, thinking, eating and drinking all season,
Time to cut the niceties, all the spice and tea we been dining on, get to the point,

Jab me with your style, with your quick wit with you I'll anoint
We be rocking this joint all the way to manana, sitting in the sauna, no need for Marijuana, we got the beat.
Neat heat bosom babe, get this mother fucker moving in the big ol back seat.
Step aside Meat, 'cause I'm bringing the heat all the way from the boiler to this lonely ol' street.
Till deep sleep slips to slimy gutter and momma's got no more treat.
On the 'morrow we won't be feeling no sorrow, didn't borrow not a one,
Not a ton, be no fun to wallow in this for long else she'll be singing till oblivion.
Headin' on down the road, from west to east, time for a feast, get me some peanut butter and jelly and a loaf,
A pinch of salt for spice, nice peppa for to melt the ice, pickled herring, a little daring, and just an ounce of proof
Ain't no spoof that if you don't have the truth, or at least a little vermouth to cut the taste, gonna be a waste and pretty soon you won't have no roof.
Be homeless again, wasted cats, and feeling a bit aloof.
For you know it you'll be eatin' saltines and sipping cheap suds, clueless,
Blues-less songs sung in dark halls and cries from her loose lips
Take a few more sips, not enough tips in the jar to make it very far, but what the hell, don't mind the smell, so show don't tell, and it'll all be swell (for Cousin Mel).