Hair Of The Dog: Interlude Tonsorial
Exqueeze me whilst I sing the tale
of facial hair gone tough as nails.
When short, it chafes, when long it scares!
Crepusculating facial hairs
portend the chafed skin one expects
of consequence in harm direct
of concourse with the roughshod necks
of neck-beards come to wreak their heck!
'Ere I detect, this sullen morn,
a loathsome beastly beard is born,
to aggravate, and for a week,
imperturbate the shaven-cheek'd
and terrorize the newly shorn
with skin smooth as a baby born
and terror in their widening eyes,
as chafes, it does, their inner thighs?
O!
Gentle on a summer's eve,
till facial hairs arrive en-scéne
and, stubbly on a summ'ry day,
abrade a poor girl's thighs away!
Enbarbatating facial growth,
when unwisely left alone,
may force a call to…
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Pink Floyd's album "Animals", for me, might stand alone as the most singular achievement of the rock 'n' roll era. I've always argued that Pink Floyd were not a rock band, but the first act of what several decades later eventually came to be called "post-rock"—musicians grounded in the language and conventions of rock but doing their own thing with it—and never did they push the boundaries of rock music further from its beginnings, while still staying true to its basic visceral nature (this is, after all, a genre of music named after a slang term for fucking) than on "Animals".
