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The Saints Go Marching Through All The Popular Tunes
William S. Burroughs
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Lyrics
Original
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And the saints go marching through all the popular tunes
Waiting for the sunrise and cosmic laughter of cable cars
The shriek of Araby in constant motion
Blue moon, Margie, ice cream on my knee
Love floating in perilous track
Nothing here now but the recordings
May not refuse vision in setting forth
Silence
Tote
Twas goodbye on the line of Bradley's naked body
Loveskin on a bicycle built for two
Like a deflated balloon
Your cool hand on his naked dollars, baby
Who is speaking? Vaudeville voices
Crackling paper without names went out in green electric shocks
Dream and dreamer lying there
Blessed be he who spares galaxies we intersect on
No more
My writing arm is...
Dollar baby
How cute can you be in desolate underbrush?
You were meant for me
Battered phonograph talk face
I'm just a vagabond passed without
Can't play the game as well as you, darling
Train whistle, open shirt flapping
Hi diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle
...Your summons melted into air
...And identity
The driver shrugged
Such people made in Paris, 1961
...Mr. Bradley, Mr. Barton
...Fell where his shadow, muttering
The time had come for him to forebear
My blood whom I created, you are your...
I had a dog, his name was Bill
The working class of me
Tearing his insides apart
Need a helping hand
Understanding out of date
Find someone else at this time of day
It's a long way to go
Someone walking won't be too
Written on the door, pure information
Fuck off, Mr. Fabus
Give you identity here
Orgasm knife in the heart
Little lazy life in suburbs without a shadow
Mutinous door
Read to by a boy, five times of dust we made it all
The boatman smiles
With such form went to Madrid
Brandy neat, Demerol
April is the last electrician to tap on the pane
Five times without names, we are not here for fun
...Fouled sense of shifting reality
Our genealogical tree and in the air thing police
He leads Marcel to the other side of human dreams
No shelter, a handful of dust falling in concrete crept a
Poison sun dead
And cursed be he who moves it