In places least expected.

Knowing a tiger means you must
Accept his promise of mutual trust
And offer him your throat.

Loving a tiger means you take
Second place to the cake you bake
And with undying servile obedience
keep the stiffly starched collar
of his conference shirt spotless
and remove daily the daubed bloody
evidence of his dastardly misdeeds
from the otherwise immaculate elegance
of his pinstripe tiger coat.

Period.

"Law Of The Bungle Part II"

''Hello. This is `Law of the Bungle Part II'. By the way, I'm Martin
Barre; but sometimes I'm an owl, and my feathers are really smooth,
and when I feel romantic I like to dress up in men's clothing.''

"Left Right"

The master playwright
Urges you to play right/play wrong;
Life is long and every night's the first night.

The wardrobe mistress
Urges you to dress left/dress right;
What a mess when your underpants are too tight.

Who's on the stage door
To help you find the way in/way out?
It's not a sin to be knowing that you don't know.

When you breathe your last line
Will you make your exit stage left/stage right?

Well, you might decide while there's still time.

You have an angel on your shoulder
But you wear the old god's horns.
And you dance around the maypole
While the vicar makes a toast
To the pagan celebration
And extends an invitation to us all
So he can save us when we fall.

Who's your leading lady?
Will you help to get her off the bus? It's best
to pass the test before you get too lazy.

Strike up the orchestra.
Take your cues on the up-beat/Beat down
Anyone who says he doesn't like the sound.

"Solitaire"

Brain-storming, habit-forming, battle-warning weary winsome actor spewing
spineless chilling lines--
The critics falling over to tell themselves he's boring
And really not an awful lot of fun.

Well who the hell can he be when he's never had V.D.,
And he doesn't even sit on toilet seats?

Court-jesting, never-resting--he must be very cunning
To assume an air of dignity
And bless us all
With his oratory prowess,

With his oratory prowess,
His lame-brained antics and his jumping in the air.

And every night his act's the same
And so it must be all a game of chess he's playing--

But you're wrong, Steve. You see, it's only solitaire.

"Critique Oblique"

Critic of the black and white
It's your first night.
The Passion Play gets in the way,
Spoils your insight.

Tell me how the baby's made,
How the lady's laid,

Why the old dogs howl with sadness.

The blue thing in the ball leaves naught but a bloody footprint on
the memory of last summer's trip to Europe

Did you buy a passport from the queen?

And your little sister's immaculate virginity wings away on the bony
shoulder of a young horse named George who stole surreptitiously
into her geography revision.
The examining body examined her body.

"Post Last"

One two three Two

The editor lies screaming (begging in his working drink),
Questioning ``Who is God's favorite rock star this week?''
And will the front page pay (take?) him?

The deadline for the headline is the breadline.

"Scenario"

In long years of ancient time, stood alone a friend of mine.
Reflected by the ever-burning sigh of a god who happened by.

And in the dawn, there came the song
Of some sweet lady singing in his ear.
Your god has gone, and from now on,
You'll have to learn to hate the things you fear.

We want to know, are we inside the womb?
Of passion plays, in thy righteousness consumed?
Or just in lush contentment of our souls?

And so began the age of man,
And they left his body in the sand.
Their glasses raised to a god on high,