27 Questions

When lost in wild rain there is nothing you can do

When lost in city rain there is something you can do

To take refuge wherever's marked: Admission Free

As we did one night, back in late '43

I've never seen the man on the poster before

But my friends say he was a big star before the war

The boy behind the door, louder than a bomb

All the way down the street, you heard his song

Roll up, roll up, tonight is the night

Freddie Frost gives his last will live on stage

Roll up, roll up for the show of a lifetime

Doors open a quarter to eight

Sat in upholstery that was once brilliant

We picked its loose stuffing and looked around

There were duchesses and dukes, and beggars and pimps

All sat side-by-side to watch his last grasp at life

The grand centerpiece was a gold green sarcophagus

Flanked either side by oil-painted pictures of the man

First of all, a film to explain his life-long dream

Afterwards, music started and a young girl ran on with operatic screams

Two hours went by and his sixty-five daughters

Who told, through opera, of his life's importance

They sang of his exploits all over the Earth

His likes and dislikes, his undoubtable worth

And after a last crescendo where they all cried as one

They hurried quickly off, but the music played on

From within his sarcophagus rose a spot-lit withered hand

Mister Frost emerged, and to the racing beat he danced

With the vital energy of a newborn chimp

He spun and he spun and he spun and he spun and spun

Hopelessly wrinkled and by no means thin

He soon became dizzy, regained his composure

And started to sing

Thank you for listening

I won't be too long

Just twenty-seven questions to finish this song

Does there exist a marriage that can't survive castration?

A future where a man can go a year without hydration?

Is grass ever greener?

Is the will really free?

Is it only black you see when you join the deceased?

Will I forever be a mediocrity?

A hideous glut with trembling knees?

In death will I see the girls of daydreams?

Intangibly dressed, invisibly seamed?

Will the Sun burn out?

Will my corpse grow a beard?

Will my house be kept?

And my sperm be reared?

My last shot at the big time, posthumous paste

Will I find a home, or go to waste?

In Heaven, do the morals of Earth still stand?

Or can I bridge the gap twixt beast and man?

Is there such a thing as a universal truth?

Any lost secret to eternal youth?

Do nuns fornicate?

And do scientists pray?

Is a sin committed every moment of every day?

That's not quite twenty-seven

But my chest feels awful tight

So thank you for listening

Good night, good night, good night!

Freddie Frost blew up to the size of a hot air balloon

Red as all hellfire and loud as Satan's siren

And he wheezed and moaned in pain as he rose

But we all just laughed at the sad, old oaf

Laughed all the way home