Steppes

Prelude To Ecstasy

Music

Steppes

Words

Robert Masters

Monologue

Scott Grant

Lyrics

You tell-a me baby if I do what you say
You give me some love on maybe saturday
But saturday comes
You tell me baby not tonight
Cause you're the only one
You say, does it right
You make-a me crazy, you drive insane
I'm-a blue, I'm not talking about my brain
La la la la all wound up
La la la you like to keep me wrapped up
La la you stroke me so I'll do what you want
Dance you fool, fool dances for you

It seems we're victims
Of extreme points of view
Controlling you and telling me nothing new
And even god's hands
Has got their fingers on you

Wrong sequence, wrong station

(narration)
"It's a quarter till two, and most of the regulars have already left. There's a woman sitting at the next table, nursing a half-open glass of raw vinegar and staring at me with lurid contemplation. I light up a Sherman and exhale suavely through my nostrils, watching the smoke intently as it coalesces into a small cube, about twenty centimeters to a side. It falls to the tabletop, and with a resounding flash of light, bursts asunder, revealing in its place a large biomagnetic zipper that extends the length of the tabletop. I run down a mental list of my options, and reach forward, working the zipper open as I nervously hum a tune in 7/8. "Mr. Bob Dobalina come on down!" a voice seems to beckon me, a siren song if ever I heard one. I've always been a sucker for siren songs in 7/8 though. So with a song in my heart and a hand on my wallet, I climb up, on to the top of the table, and jump, feet first, into the open zipper!"

Wrong sequence, wrong station

You try to wrap me round your finger you do
You'd think that
You'd have something better to do
So tell me another lie and make it look true

Wrong sequence, wrong station