I believe there are some rights that should never be taken away, and one of them is the right to be a truly awful musician.

 Every day, this right is threatened by furrowed-brow intellectuals with over-active last.fm accounts who believe you have no business picking up an instrument unless you can win a Mercury Prize. You know the type. You can’t even quietly strum a G-chord in your bedroom without one of these self-appointed moral guardians of musical taste popping out of your closet and accusing you of being a Pixies rip-off. And when they’re not popping out of your closet, they’re haunting your university campus or favourite music forum, checking out what’s becoming popular just so they can hate on it.

What these people don’t realise is that for most young people, being in a shit band is a rite of passage. Heck, it’s basically an OBLIGATION. Nobody lays down on their death bed at the age of 90 and thinks “Wow, I’m so glad I DIDN’T play guitar when I was younger, because I would have gotten shit-canned by that reviewer with the tight jeans and philosophy degree”. It just doesn’t happen. Chances are they think “Damn it, why didn’t I seize the day and rock it while I had the chance?” Let’s face it, while all those holier-than-thou music critics are pontificating about a band’s lack of originality, the actual band members are usually backstage, drinking heavily and shagging girls who are too wasted to realise their music isn’t actually very good. I know which one I’d rather be doing.

 Don’t get me wrong. I love quality music as much as anyone, but we can’t all tug at the heartstrings like Thom Yorke. Some of us have to be in that sucky band you bitch about to your friends. If it means I get to carry an instrument around town, looking vaguely cool, I’m happy to be in that band.

And sure, nobody wants to see a cruddy, unoriginal band conquer the charts at the expense of more talented musicians, but what if we don’t wanna conquer the charts? What if we don’t particularly want to conquer anything except a six-pack of Super Dry? What then?

My point is, how boring would it be if every band you saw at your local club was the next Sigur Ros? You’d never get the chance to experience B-Grade Swamp Rock, groin-pulsating cock rock, experimental circus music hybrid garbage, or angry grunge with too much reverb, mixed with the Bataan Death March.

Ultimately we all have the right to express ourselves, even if expressing yourself means bashing on a fry pan and screaming “I hate my mum. I hate my mum!”

2)      Can you leave the date blank, or at least draw a loop of infinity?

3)      Should I get naked? I know you’re just checking inside my ear, but it’s more comfortable and liberating.

4)      Honestly, if you were trapped on a desert island, could you SERIOUSLY eat your own foot to survive?

5)      Can you vaccinate me against that illness that turns you into a douchebag? I’m worried I might catch it next time I’m in the Valley on Saturday night.

6)      Is vegetarianism healthy? I read a book by some German doctors that said I should eat meat. Are they biased because they both have shares in Bratwurst sausages?

7)      So… you like stuff?

8)      Can you unblock my sinuses? My nose whistles when I sleep and my mum thinks the kettle’s boiling.

9)      I’d like to become a doctor but I don’t feel like spending 8 years at uni. Could I just do a Graduate Diploma on top of my Philosophy degree?

10)   Is sleeping for 8 hours a night still healthy if you’re dreaming of mass murder?

What’s the point of life? Is there a reason that things happen?

Is destiny pre-planned or is the cosmos cruel and random?

Can we save our souls by offering our lives to Jesus?

Or can we shape our futures reading Rhonda Byrne’s The Secret?

Well, I’ve been searching for the truth inside The Bible’s pages

And studying the Selfish Genes that have survived the ages

And though I’d like to think that there’s a reason we exist

I’m pretty sure the truth is I’m a goddamn atheist

Yes, I’m pretty sure the truth is I’m a goddamn atheist

 -

Well, I meet a lot of couples who seem made for one another

For fifty years, my grandfather has been with my grandmother

And I sometimes think that Heaven has a soul-mate factory

But then I think of car crash victims, dead at 23

Well, there’s got to be someone for me and, girl, maybe it’s you

Maybe we could be a snuggly happy married couple too

And maybe when you kiss me I’ll believe in eternal bliss

But if you reject me, baby, I’ll remain an atheist

Yes if you reject me, baby, I’ll remain an atheist

 -

Well,

My illusions have been shattered and reality is back

‘Cos you’ve got a new boyfriend and he’s a rugby quarterback

His name is Zac, his car is phat and he’s the reason you can’t date me

Either God must not exist or God must really fucking hate me

He’s an asshole but he turns you on because of evolution

And to think I wasted all that time on cosmic mind pollution

Atheism isn’t dark enough, I’m really, really pissed

So from now on, motherfuckers, I’m a goddamn Satanist.

There’s a bully at school

With a powerful punch

Who gives me black eyes

And runs off with my lunch

And he beat me up last night outside my friend’s party

I think it’s about time I took up Karate

-

I went to a dojo and joined in the class

Hoping they’d teach me to kick some real arse

And I practiced my katas and kaias and kicks

But it’s all far too complex to be a quick fix

-

I found out the next day, bleeding on the ashphalt

That the bully himself is a fucking black belt

Now I’m scratching my head, wondering what to do

Karate is useless. I’m still in the poo!

-

Well, my uncle Davo’s a black market arms dealer

A bikie from Ipswich who owns a rottweiler

And he says “sonny Jim, let me handle this bastard”

“Karate is great,

But me shotgun’s much faster”.

The most surprising thing about him wasn’t that he was grocery shopping in Woolworths. It was that he looked so damn much like the Grim Reaper. Same dirty skull for a face. Same black, hollow eye sockets. He even wore a black shroud and carried a scythe in his hand.

He was the spitting image of the Reaper in that famous AIDS awareness commercial from the 80s. The one who knocked helpless people down with bowling balls in a dark, misty alley.

Matt tried to remain casual. “How’s things?” he asked

“Yeah, not bad,” said the Reaper said. “Things could be a lot worse.”

“What are you up to?” asked Matt. “Shopping for meat?” He felt stupid as soon as he’d said it. The Reaper probably liked his produce a little…well, fresher.

 “Actually,” said the Reaper. “I came to speak to you.”

Matt froze. It was rarely a good thing when the messenger of death came to visit you personally. In fact, it usually meant…

“I’ve got some bad news for you, Matt,” the Reaper said. “You might want to sit down for this.”

“Okay,” said Matt. He sat down and crossed his legs in the middle of the aisle, stopping a woman with a trolley from getting past.

“Actually, stand up,” said the Reaper.

Matt stood up. The middle-aged lady edged past, scowling at him.

“Matt,” said the Reaper. “I’m sorry to say you’re dead.”

“What?” Matt exclaimed. This made no sense. His heart was beating. Air was going in and out of his lungs. He felt as healthy as a man who lived primarily on corn chips and salsa could possibly be. “Sorry,” he said. “You’ve got the wrong Matt McColligan. I’m very much alive.”

“That’s not true,” said the Reaper. “You just think you’re alive. Really, you’re a corpse. And any moment, you’re going to start decomposing.”

Matt shuddered. The thought of decomposing in public was humiliating, especially if he ran into some hotties.

“So when did I die?” asked Matt. “And what did I die from?”

“You died three minutes ago,” said The Grim Reaper. He looked around. “From eating too much meat. That’s it, heart failure.”

 “Oh,” said Matt. “I guess I shouldn’t buy these lamb chops then?”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter now,” said the Reaper.

Matt could picture the Reaper with a bowling ball. Not an especially heavy one, as his bony arms looked easy to break, but a bowling ball nonetheless. “So, what’s next?” he asked. “Are you gonna drag me to Hell or something?”

“Definitely,” said the Grim Reaper. “But I’m a little busy at the moment. Got some more souls to gather and all that jazz. So just go home and wait for me, okay?”

“Okay,” said Matt. He briefly considered arguing, but figured you couldn’t fight fate.

“Hey, Reaper,” he said. “I do have one question. What’s it like being dead?”

“It’s like being asleep forever,” said Death.

Matt thought it over for a moment.

“I can handle that,” he said.

 *

Matt carried the groceries up the hill to his house. It was a punishingly hot day. As he made the agonising trip to his doorstep, he wondered how his supposedly dead body could sweat so much.

He hadn’t been expecting this. His day had started off simple. He’d slept in until the sun had unceremoniously woken him, cooked himself an egg, gone back to bed for two hours, played computer games for a little while longer and ignored repeated phone calls from Centrelink. The only reason he’d left the house was to pick up some much-needed cola and potato chips. Now he was dead. It was amazing how quickly it could all be over.

Matt pondered texting his family and friends and telling them the news. Nah, he thought. They’ll find out soon enough. No point wasting credit.

Matt looked back on his life. At the age of 21, he’d already accomplished some pretty remarkable things. He’d sat through a five-hour horror movie marathon without needing to pee. He’d seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show and Bloodsucking Freaks. So far, so good. But something was missing. There was something he still had yet to accomplish, some vague hope or long-unfulfilled dream that burned in the back of his mind.

“Oh my God!” he cried out loud. “I still haven’t seen Evil Dead 3!”

Matt broke down and wept. His life had been a waste.

 *

Inside the house, Matt could see little yellow post-it notes stuck to the walls. Fiona had gone out, and she’d left him messages again.

Matthew! said large, angry letters scrawled in texta. If you make a mess… CLEAN IT UP! Wash your own dishes and the house will be MUCH happier.

Matt loaded his shopping into the fridge and went to the toilet, where another note awaited him. MATTHEW! This morning I found sticky drops of urine on the tiles and a troll doll in the toilet bowl. Don’t be disgusting and CLEAN UP IF YOU MAKE A MESS.

Matt made his way to the living room and found a note on the floor next to a plate of carrots. The carrots had started to sprout mould. WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS??? the note said.

Matt blushed. He’d forgotten he’d left those there.

It was Saturday. Fiona and Ollie had probably gone to the markets like they usually did. Matt threw the carrots in the bin and decided to go to bed. Maybe by the time he woke up, the Reaper would be back.

 *

After three hours of peaceful sleep, Matt was awoken by someone even more unpleasant than Death.

His housemate Ollie.

“Matt,” said Ollie. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

Ollie irked Matt not just because he was arrogant, but because he was justifiably arrogant. At 22, he was reasonably successful in every area of his life. He had a job as a primary school teacher, lots of friends, owned his own car and had a girlfriend, even if his girlfriend was Fiona. Fiona and Ollie were perfectly suited for each other. They shared a passion for cleanliness and accomplishment, and a dislike of Matt.

“Fiona and I have been talking,” said Ollie. “The rent is $500 a week. I pay $300, and Fiona pays $200. How much do you pay again?”

“Um, zero,” said Matt. “I think.”

“Riiiight,” said Ollie. “I think you’re gonna have to pay a little more. Otherwise, we may have to start looking for a new housemate.”

“Um, I have some change in my sock drawer,” said Matt. He sat up in bed, rummaged through his sock drawer and pulled out a 20 cent piece. “Give me a moment and I can probably find a little more.”

“I think you need a job,” said Ollie. “Fiona and I both work full-time. There’s no reason why you can’t.”

“I’d like to get a job, Ollie,” said Matt. “But you know how tough this recession is. Besides, you and Fiona both have… what’s that word? Oh yeah, skills. I’m not really qualified for anything.”

“Why don’t you make yourself qualified?” asked Ollie. “Have you ever considered university? Volunteer work? TAFE?”

“Those are all very good ideas,” said Matt. “But the problem is I’m dead.”

“Pardon me?” said Ollie.

“I’m dead,” repeated Matt. “I met the Grim Reaper in the supermarket this afternoon and he told me so. That’s why I can’t get a job, or help with the dishes, or do anything. I’m not even supposed to get out of bed. I’m supposed to stay here and sleep while I wait for the Reaper to come get me.”

“You’ve been doing that for 21 years,” said Ollie in disgust. But Matt didn’t hear. He’d already fallen asleep again.

 *

Matt spent the next few days making the most out of his situation. He played computer games, posted on Internet forums and watched neglected DVD’s that he hadn’t seen in ages. He had to prepare his own meals, unfortunately, because Fiona and Ollie had scoffed at the idea of cooking for him. Ollie even had the audacity to say “I thought a corpse didn’t need to eat,” to which Matt had responded: “Maybe not. But I’m SO hungry.” Luckily reheated meat pies weren’t too hard to prepare, and if Ollie and Fiona were frightened by the sight of his dead body waltzing around the kitchen, that was their problem.

At first, everything went wonderfully. Even Centrelink stopped bothering him after he told them “the person you’re trying to call is dead”. But then disaster struck. By the second evening, he’d run out of food.

“Why don’t you just go down to the supermarket?” asked Ollie as Matt phoned Eagle Boys for his dinner. “You can’t just order pizza for every meal. You’ll burn through your dole money in three days.”

“I can’t go down to the supermarket either,” said Matt. “What if the Grim Reaper comes back while I’m out and totally misses me?”

“Wouldn’t that be a good thing?” asked Ollie. But Matt didn’t hear. “Can I get a large meat lovers with cheesy crust?” he asked.

After he’d gotten off the phone, Matt ripped his shirt off, threw it across the room and slumped on the couch to watch TV. Ollie looked at Matt’s skinny, ash white torso glistening with sweat. He shuddered in revulsion and whispered in Fiona’s ear.

“Do you want to put the accommodation notice in the paper? Or will I?”

 *

The next morning, Matt woke up with a dry mouth, a throbbing headache and a wicked leg cramp. It’s not fair, he thought. I shouldn’t feel the heat now that I’m dead. How can a corpse perspire so much?

To make matters worse, there was a stranger in the hallway. “Wow, is this your family portrait?” shouted a woman with a strong Canadian accent.            

“That’s my aunt Linda and uncle Frank,” said Fiona. “They live in Toowoomba. Did you want to see the room?”

“Sure,” said the Canadian woman. She dropped her voice to a hushed, solemn whisper. “I just want you both to know that I’m really sorry for what happened. I know it’s probably a very difficult time for you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Ollie. “These things happen, don’t they? If you don’t mind sleeping in a dead guy’s bedroom, I don’t think it will be a problem.”

Matt sat up with a shock. They were giving away his bedroom! He tried to jump out of bed, but a spasm of pain shot through his leg and paralysed him. He clutched his leg and groaned helplessly as the door opened and a chubby, red-headed young woman with a mouth full of braces stepped inside. Matt guessed she was 18 or 19.

“Wow!” she shouted, looking at Matt’s purple bed sheets with question marks on them. “Awesome sheets, dude!”

Matt jumped out of bed. Dripping with sweat and wearing only his boxers, he walked over and stared down the trio in the doorway.

“Holly,” said Fiona, gesturing to the Canadian girl without smiling. “This is Matt.”

Matt tried to be polite. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked.

“Holly’s our new housemate,” said Fiona. “We figured that since you were dead, you wouldn’t mind giving up your room to a uni student with a job. We can even help you move your stuff out.”

“You’re giving away my ROOM?” screamed Matt. “Where am I gonna live? I mean, die?”

“How about a nice coffin?” said Ollie. “I’m sure your grieving family will pay for one. If not, I can bury you in the backyard right now.”

“You guys are jerks,” said Matt. “Don’t you realize I need somewhere to stay while I wait for the Grim Reaper?”

“Well, he’s certainly taking his time,” said Ollie. “And we’ve got an electricity bill due next week. Reckon you could give him a call, tell him to hurry up a bit?”

“I don’t have his mobile number!” said Matt. “Plus I don’t know how many other souls he has to gather and process. It probably takes him weeks to file all the paperwork.”

  “Well,” said Fiona. “We could always ring the nursing home. It’s a popular place to die these days.”

 *

Matt sat in the park with a suitcase full of clothes under one arm and a bag full of porno DVD’s in the other. He pondered his next move. Who could he stay with for the next few weeks (or possibly next few years, depending on how things went)?

He figured he could do pretty much anything. He could sky-dive without worrying that his parachute would break. He could swim in shark-infested waters. The possibilities were endless. He was dead. He was invincible.

He was speaking too soon.

The Reaper moved his way across the grass, his heavy black shroud glinting in the sunlight.

“Oh, crap,” said Matt.

He stood up. He wanted to die on his feet.

The Reaper shuffled over and put his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Matt McColligan,” he said. He smelt like decay and old books. “It is time.”

Matt quivered. “It’s time?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the Reaper. “Time to go home and get on with your life.”

Matt’s mouth fell open. He stood there, unable to move, blinking stupidly.

“You’ve been the victim of a nasty little joke,” the Reaper continued. “I do apologise for my son’s behaviour.”

“Your son?” said Matt, confused. “But I thought he was the Grim Reaper. I mean, the other Grim Reaper.”

 “I’m the Grim Reaper!” the Reaper shouted. “He’s the Grim Prankster! He’s done this to eleven people now. One poor woman in China had to wait six weeks  before I could find her and explain.”

“The Grim Reaper has a son who plays jokes on people?” said Matt. “I never would have figured.”

“I’ve tried to get him to follow me into the death industry,” said the Reaper. “But he doesn’t seem interested. He’s very lazy. Spends all his time bowling.”

“Wow,” said Matt.

“So you’re free to go,” said the Reaper. “But stay safe, okay? I don’t wanna have to come back here this afternoon.” And with that, he disappeared like a fleeting memory.

 *

“My blood pressure is up again,” said Mr. McColligan. “That’s what the doctor said.”

It was another tense dinner moment at Matt’s parents’ house. Matt had spent the last half-hour listening to his father blame him for his poor digestion, his baldness, his kidney stones and the blotches on his torso. It was a small price to pay, he supposed, for having a place to crash rent-free.

“That’s no good,” said Matt, trying to appear sympathetic. “Maybe you need to eat less meat.”

Matt’s mothers mouth fell open in shock. Matt started laughing at his own joke. He laughed so hard the half-chewed piece of steak in his mouth went down his windpipe. His chest seized up, and he began coughing. Violently.

“Matt?” his mother gasped. “Are you okay?”

And with that, Matt fell from the chair and rolled around on the floor frantically. A few seconds later, he was dead.

The Grim Reaper shook his head as he peered through the window.

It was going to be a long night.

-

Stephen Cummings

Good Bones

(Liberation)

Stephen Cummings has always been one of those songwriters who can switch genres with ease. From the disco-pop of his hit single ‘Gymnasium’ to the melancholy of ‘When Love Comes Back to Haunt You’, he’s had a knack for good melodies and smart storytelling. Previously the vocalist for The Pelaco Brothers and The Sports, he’s been going it solo since 1983.  Not all of his releases have achieved commercial success, but the majority have been critically acclaimed.

Good Bones is Cummings’ follow-up to his previous retrospective Close-Ups, which featured acoustic versions of his biggest hits. By contrast, the tracks on Good Bones haven’t made as much of a dent on the pop charts, but they’re clearly ones that Cummings likes. As he says himself: “Good Bones is a collection of songs that have served me well over 35 years as a musician”.

None of the songs have the catchy immediacy of ‘When the Day is Done’ or ‘A Life is a Life’ (although the upbeat ‘Walk in a Room’ comes pretty close), but the stripped-back acoustic strums demonstrate Cummings at his most elegant and soulful. Billy Miller and Shane O’Mara contribute sparse electric guitars and light percussion, giving the songs some extra ambience while never pushing Cummings out of the spotlight.

Nostalgia permeates the first two tracks: The sleazy guitar drawl and sexy horror lyrics of ‘Vampire Girl’ and the jukebox-ish heartbreak of ‘Missing the Kissing’. From there we are treated to the noirish crime tale ‘What Did the Detective Say?’, the old-school rock’n’roll of ‘Hot Dog’ and the exceptional ballads ‘One Kiss’ and ‘Black Stockings for Chelsea’, plus heaps more.

Good Bones contains nothing new, but it’s still a decent retrospective from a diverse songwriter, and a damn good listen. And just for the record, Cummings is planning a completely new solo album for Christmas. Good to know!

****

If life is a game, then I’m still a beginner

‘cos I still like to play games where everyone’s a winner

I’m not a psycho or a gangster thug

Just a struggling author, educated and smug

People ask “How do you sleep at night?”

I guess the answer is… I sleep alright

I like to talk like an encyclopedia

An activist who reads the Murdoch media

Lately my stomach’s been filled with dread and worry

‘Cos the years are passing me by in what feels like a godawful hurry

These days have turned out nothing like I had planned

Oh fuck off, Powderfinger, at least you’re a famous band

I’ve tried to be strong, and I’ve tried to fight this

But I’m having a Quarter Life Crisis

-

You know that old joke about arts degrees

And jobs in fast food? Well, it’s true for me

But these days, even people with REAL degrees

Are struggling to pay back their uni fees

And I’m not the type to laugh at other people’s misfortune

Except when my cousin fell off his chair. That was pretty awesome.

I’m at the gym tonight, lifting weights

Hoping I’m in perfect shape when I’m 28

Because I didn’t exercise enough during adolescence

I’ve grown up now, I hope I don’t turn into my parents

I’m regretting every decision I’ve ever made

Regretting not saving every cent I’ve ever been paid

Should I go overseas? Should I study some more?

Should I take this damn Weezer poster off my door?

I think I might go get a skipper’s licence

The things you do when you’re having a Quarter Life Crisis

-

It’s time for a really thorough self-examination

Calm down, I’m not talking about masturbation

But rather the frustration of dreams caught in stagnation

I’m running out of patience, trying to make some changes

I wanna travel to exciting locations

Find love and have a thrilling occupation

Instead I’m putting in countless applications

To media organisations with ties to the fucking Masons

I wish I had a more fulfilling job

Than working in a church, serving pancakes to knobs

I’m reading too much self-help shit

Chanting “I am somebody!” as I dance to Passion Pit

-

Back in primary school, grade whenever

I used to get excited about Christmas each December

But now, it just means another year’s gone past

Have I wasted too much time sitting on my arse?

Some of my friends from high school are married and having kids

While I’m just sitting in my sharehouse, getting pissed

My high school sweetheart never existed

That coming of age thing, I reckon I missed it

I know I’ll go through this again when I’m 40

And I’m recently divorced, overweight, sad and balding

I thought I had a quarter life crisis, but screw it

My life’s the crisis. I’m just a quarter way through it.

Your cherry red hair falls in every direction

Your curves are divine and your skin is perfection

Your sparkling eyes show me my reflection

Your gene pool’s a marvel of natural selection

My heart fills with joy when we hold hands together

I know deep inside, we’ll be lovers forever

You look really cute in your fluffy pink sweater

But you know something, baby? I think I’d look better

-

Well, you’re out with the girls on a Saturday night

The house is now empty, and to my delight

I look quite seductive dressed in your black tights

As I pose on the couch, smoking Marlboro Lights

And it might sound strange, and it might sound silly

But I’m wearing your underwear, so soft and frilly

Your stylish black dresses show off my great figure

I just wish your high heels were five sizes bigger

-

Well, I fell asleep with my cigarette burning

Did not hear the key in the front door lock, turning

You woke me and stood there with both your arms crossed

Now my secret’s revealed and my dignity’s lost

I know it’s disturbing but what can I do?

I’m in love with two women – and one of them’s you

I’m sorry I stretched all your favourite skirts

Don’t tell me you’ll leave me – you know that that hurts

I really think we’d get along so much better

If you let me borrow your pink fluffy sweater

There’s a new girl ‘round here. I call her Monique

Maybe she should come out with the ladies next week

When I worked as a waiter, you threw your food at me

You said the pasta was too cold and demanded it for free

When I worked in a nightclub, I put up with your shit

While you threw up all over my shoes and had a drunken fit

When I worked at McDonalds, I put up with you pricks

And got fake blood thrown on me by naked PETA chicks

So finally I snapped and said “I’ve had it with these stunts”

I’m gonna be a telemarketer and annoy you all for once

I put my little headset on and cackled wickedly

It was time to get revenge on anyone who’d bullied me

The kids who beat me up at school, I rang up them up at home

As soon as dinner was ready, they would hear me on the phone

Oh I’ll ring you in the shower, I’ll ring you on the john

I’ll ring you during sex the second you slip the condom on

And as you make your family a lovely home-cooked meal

I’ll ring you up and offer you a faster Broadband deal

You’ll probably hang up on me, but I will just ring back

And offer you a discount on a brand new apple mac

And just when you start telling me you’ve had it with these calls

I’ll ring you up just one more time and tell you SUCK MY BALLS!

‘Cos I’m a telemarketer, and this is what we do

We make a living irritating uptight folks like you

So be nice to bartenders, and people in fast food

Or we’ll get jobs in call centres and then you’re really screwed

The sun is much too hot!

It burns my pasty skin

It really is a crime

A motherfucking sin

I wanna lose my tan until I’m ghostly pale white

Like an apparition that goes walking at midnight

I suppose that I could bake myself just like a surf lifesaver

But I’d rather stay indoors, watch Donnie Darko and get paler

So you can put your swimmers on and frolic on the beach

I’ll stay here in the bathroom and I’ll soak myself in bleach

-

Vitamin D

Is really not for me

So I’ll stay sunburn free

And Gothic as can be

I’ll only swim at night-time, underneath the moon

And then I’ll write dark poetry and sleep inside a tomb

I’ll never get a tan

Never get a tan

-

I’m not a champion swimmer. I’m not an Ian Thorpe

I’m a melancholy poet and my bride’s a rotting corpse

So you can grab your surfboard and catch a couple waves

I’ll stay here in the cemetery and walk amongst the graves

I s’pose that I could try and get a muscular physique

Spend more time in the sun, go to the gym three times a week

You might think that will help me get the women I desire

But I’d rather make babies with a girl who’s a VAMPIRE

-

It is time to make a stand

I do not want to be tanned

I’m a very Gothic man

Singer in a Gothic band

It is time to make a stand

I do not want to be tanned

I’m a very Gothic man

Singer in a Gothic band, oh -

Magic spells and pentagrams

Silver jewellery, ritual chants

Eerie dreams and strange romance

Absinthe shots and Dead Can Dance

Horror fiction, frightening lands

Dyed black hair and Death Rock bands

Peter Murphy’s underpants

Edward fucking Scissorhands

Haunted houses, moonlight’s kiss

Misery and fiery pits

Bondage mistress cracking whips

Biblical apocalypse

And nowhere on this massive list

Does any reference exist

To getting any freaking tan

I’d rather have my soul be damned

-

This SPF30 protection

Lasts from death ‘til resurrection

Watch me as I rise from all bloody

From a swamp so thick and muddy

Pale like a walking spector

Stalk you like a debt collector

Even as my father nags me

To go swimming with the family

Fuck noooooooooooo!

I’ll never get a tan.