Are you ready for another song by the mysterious songwriter, Dugym Qycfyl? This is a good one and is actually quite snooty. Based on a pome by Walt Whitman (Slim Whitman's grandad).
Originally called by me "Oh, Mommy" this song came about in February of 1999 when Dugym Qycfyl handed me a printout of some e-mails he had with Ed, who, three years later, became one of America's first homegrown terrorists. Or victim. Poor Ed, he had to pick a day in which everybody and his dog was freaking out about anthrax letters to make a joke about it. He was in the mens bathroom at work and doing his thing when another guy, leaving the rest room, turned off the light. Ed yelled and left a note on the mirror telling the guy that if he did it again he'd have more than anthrax to worry about. That was enough for the authorities in Shreveport LA. They hauled Ed off to jail where he stayed for over a month. When America freaks out, duck! Unfortunately, we're now in a constant duck.
The e-mails were about a poem by Walt Whitman called "Song of Myself". You may have heard the line "Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. (I am large, I contain multitudes)" which is taken from the the last, and 52nd, canto (or whatever they're called). It's a huge poem.
Dugym rephrased the last canto into modern TV-speak and gave me the printout as if it were a poem he had written, so naturally I took it home and laid down some Byrds-like drone tracks and using my best Dylan voice turned it into a song I called "Oh Mommy!" I didn't find out until much later that there was a Walt Whitman connection to the song. I figured it was just typical Qycfyl gibberish.
Note: The words below are taken from the actual e-mail printouts. They're different from the ones I sing and don't even mention "Mommy". If I remember correctly, Ed had challenged Dugym to write a poem for Mother's Day, so he took his Whitman translation and threw in a few Moms and Mommies. Those are the words I got from Dugym.
Note: The words below are taken from the actual e-mail printouts. They're different from the ones I sing and don't even mention "Mommy". If I remember correctly, Ed had challenged Dugym to write a poem for Mother's Day, so he took his Whitman translation and threw in a few Moms and Mommies. Those are the words I got from Dugym.
To aid you in seeing the translation, I am going to intersperse the two poems, with each being in a different color
Walt Whitman Dugym Qycfyl
The past and present wilt--I have fill'd them, emptied them,
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.
Now and before they am - I'ze plumped 'em, dumped 'em, An' now I'm a-plumpin' the weave of tomorrow.
Listener up there! what have you to confide to me? Look in
my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
Yo! You up there! What up? Pay attention now, while I blow
off an entire evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a
minute longer.)
Now and before they am - I'ze plumped 'em, dumped 'em, An' now I'm a-plumpin' the weave of tomorrow.
Listener up there! what have you to confide to me? Look in
my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
Yo! You up there! What up? Pay attention now, while I blow
off an entire evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a
minute longer.)
(Tell the truth, you bore people to tears, and I am outta here.)
Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
What lie then? All right -- the big lie. (Fatty me, I'm big
as a barn.)
I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.
I'm a-lookin' at the comin things, standin' in the door waitin.
Who has done his days work? Who will soonest be through with his supper? Who wishes to walk with me?
What guys finished as a day laborer? Who's wolfing down supper? Who wants to go for a hike?
Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
What lie then? All right -- the big lie. (Fatty me, I'm big
as a barn.)
I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.
I'm a-lookin' at the comin things, standin' in the door waitin.
Who has done his days work? Who will soonest be through with his supper? Who wishes to walk with me?
What guys finished as a day laborer? Who's wolfing down supper? Who wants to go for a hike?
Will you speak before I am gone? Will you prove already too late?
Won't you say something while I'm here? Don't wait?
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.
Damn pigeons flap down and crap on me, I make much noise and I wait.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable. I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
I'm such a wild man, nobody understands me, I run from housetop to housetop gibbering.
The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadowed wilds, It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
The setting clouds wait for me to see them, I see myself in the sun, and in the dark woods, How intriguing!
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I fart and poop, I waggle my bowels at the sun. My fat folds of flesh flap freely, my lacy clothes draped.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
Dig my grave. I've had it. If you want to see me, try six feet under.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood.
There's no way you'll figure me out, But what the hell--best wishes! Long life and prosper!
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.
Damn pigeons flap down and crap on me, I make much noise and I wait.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable. I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
I'm such a wild man, nobody understands me, I run from housetop to housetop gibbering.
The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadowed wilds, It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
The setting clouds wait for me to see them, I see myself in the sun, and in the dark woods, How intriguing!
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I fart and poop, I waggle my bowels at the sun. My fat folds of flesh flap freely, my lacy clothes draped.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
Dig my grave. I've had it. If you want to see me, try six feet under.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood.
There's no way you'll figure me out, But what the hell--best wishes! Long life and prosper!
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.
If you don't find me, keep looking, I'm somewhere or other, Sitting in wait for you to stumble by . . .
Cartouche
