Noises

T.C. Folkpunk

Here Crumbles The Bride

04:23
(T. Cameron)

Story

From the album "Lamest Fast Words". Buy it HERE!

Lyrics

She's got nineteen eyes all the way down to her hips,

She wears a neon fireman's helmet and has long winded fits,

Her daddy carries a woodstove and a telephone to boot,

His lab coat got no sleeves, but the pockets are filled with loot,

She's the girl you never wanted, but dreamed of all the same,

And if you roll her fuzzy dice you can play the wedding game.

 

Your soon-to-be mother-in-law has an apron full of knives,

She quotes you useless facts on all the neighbours' lives,

Then straightening her bow tie, makes noises like a bird,

Taking three steps backwards, she says she's not so sure,

That marrying a Libra is the best way to succeed,

And wouldn't it be funny if the wedding gifts were green?

 

The best man is a donkey and a well read one at that,

He's got a paisley cummerbund and a polka dot top hat,

He's dancing in the parking lot, feeling quite serene,

But the serenity is broken when the father-in law does scream,

That he's figured out the meaning behind the jelly rolls of song,

And leaping to his golf cart, drives through the wedding throng.

 

The preacher crawls in frowning with a plastic fishing rod,

He lights twelve sticks of dynamite, the congregations applauds,

Then quickly pirouetting through an elevator door,

Re-appears in seconds to read the hockey scores.

He looks vaguely familiar when he dons his hooded cloak, 

And completes the ceremony with a Liberace joke.

 

The flower girl responding to all this twisted fare,

With a kangaroo on a leash and a cactus in her hair,

She resembles John Belushi, but mostly around the waist,

She swallows her invitation, washes it down with some paste,

Then racing the desert cart around the bride's great aunt,

Rehashes her life story, but gives it a new slant.

 

The wine at the reception is filtered through the roof,

Your nephew from Nevada is tragically aloof,

And then the butter magnate crawls through the window pane,

Bearing gifts of matches and melted candy canes,

Five Tibetan monks are firing warning flares,

They finish off the evening riding chain saws down the stairs.