George Green - Bangladesh lyrics

We have to start in 1965, when all the gay meth heads couldn't decide which one they most adored, Callas or Dylan, both of them skinny as thermometers, posing like sylphs in tight black turtlenecks. Then, gradually, a multitude of Dylans began to fill the park, croaking like frogs, strumming guitars, blowing harmonicas, hundreds and hundreds, several to a bench. But there was only one Maria Callas, sequestered in her gloomy Paris pad and listening to Maria Callas records (and nothing but), her bulky curtains closed, which works for me because it worked for her. What doesn't work is three David Lee Roths, one checking bags at Trash and Vaudeville, one strutting with ratted hair up St. Mark's Place, and one zonked out in tights and on the nod, surrounded by the Dylans in the park. David Lee Roth times three would mean the times would have to change, and so a roving band of punk rockers began to beat the Dylans, chasing them through the park and pounding them senseless, then busting up their folk guitars or stealing them. They even torture one unlucky Dylan by the children's pool, holding him down to burn him with Bic lighters, then cackling when he begs to keep his Martin. Later on at the precinct, deeply troubled, a sensitive policeman contemplates the crimes. Why were marauding gangs of punks beating the Dylans in the park? He asks himself, repeatedly, not realizing that they, the punks, were cultural police determined to eradicate the Dylans and purify the park of Dylanesque pollutions and corruptions, rank and abject folk rock recrudescences, and worse— that odious and putrid piety, the sanctimoniousness of all the Dylans, the phony holiness that peaks for Bob (his faddish Christianity aside) during the benefit for Bangladesh, where George insists that Yoko not perform and John agrees 'till Yoko blows her stack, and they start primal-screaming at each other, John flying out of JFK and nodding, and Eric flying into JFK and nodding. Well, Ravi would go on first, the one and only Ravi Shankar, folks. I saw him five times, three times high on acid, the first time straight with Richard and his mom, Debbie, who drove us down from Podunk High to see him at the Syria Mosque (long gone, bulldozed in '75). Debbie's not well. Last August she was totally Alzheimered and, my sweet lord, she made a pa** at me, which was embarra**ing. Rebuffed but proud she sat down on the porch swing with a thump, and, chirping like a parakeet, she swung.