Charles Bukowski - Hairy lyrics

The Hairy Hairy Fist and Love Will Die

The dull haunches will sit in chairs and fart
See the paper flowers,  old women and lint
Horse with broken leg spider taking it in
Wrinkles under bedpan chins
Acromegalic diverticulitis
Your soul filled with mud and bats and curses
And the hammers will go in
There will be the hairy hairy
Fists and love will die
Love will stroke the balls
Of your worst enemy
And your neck will ache and toilet
Paper will stick in your crotch
And out the window
The same pictures of torture
And murder and horror cats with birds
Cats with mice dogs with cats
Live men like ivory needing a shave
And the petulant and nasty
Children of the universe
Stealing, climbing, planning, cutting
Warring all so healthy, all so strong
Ah, your soul will feel so
Bad that the saliva
Will run from your mouth in cup fulls
Patches of paint and sores will appear on
Your face and under your arms
And sleep will be the last thing
They will let you have
Men you could trust will
Fade like children's drawings
Your wife will hate you
Your child will ignore you
Your boss will fire you
The police will jail you
And there'll be no bottom
The soul will fall like a
Wounded bird of paradise
Into the most horrible stinking swill of shit
And still, no death
Still no death you will fail at death too
And there will not even be
The peace of isolation
The final grey-black cellar
Just more hammers, more saws, more engines
More bad music, more relaxed voices of zero
You'll be ripped up and down until
Your clothing no longer fit's you
You'll be the scarecrow, the rag
The smiling rag of a thing
And the enemy, which is everyone
Will appear beautifully clothed
Calm, smiling
Driving smooth rolls of shining steel
And the sun will fall upon them like a flower
Your soul will feel so bad
That you know it will not
Ever quite live again
And there'll be nothing you can do
Drink will not patch you
Prayer will not save it
Praise from the enemy will not heal it
Nothing will work
Nothing will be nothing like
A harp with broken
Strings in somebody's corner in
Somebody's misery garbage
While all around, like the fourth of July
Like betting with a virgin
Like champagne over the head of easy wildness
The force of other things and other
Ways will celebrate the occasion
Their existence without few