#1
Hi all, this is a set of conceptual lyrics I wrote for the sherlock holmes album the other night.

As you can see, most of the stanzas don't flow very well at the moment. At a later date I'll put them to the music and move them around a bit.

It's going to be a circa 1971 type progressive rock song.

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The Tea Party

Part 1: More Tea, Gloria (Reprise)

More tea, more tea Gloria?
The dead can gorge on cakes whilst the paupers of London lay destitute
But then of course you have found out the truth at the end of the black man’s noose.
There’s no glory in living below the breadline, it’s not the work of god.

More tea, more tea Gloria?
You are wizened beyond your thirty years
For you have insight into this machine.
It’s producing larvae in cocoons at an alarming rate.
You were butchered, and perhaps raped
But you know the human race better than any alive.

More tea, more tea Gloria?
Perhaps a swiss roll has found its way into your vacant eye socket? Accursed creature.
But alas, never there were cakes in those accursed docklands.
A Warehouse of a certain number that doesn’t crop up often in the construction of nature.

More tea, more tea Gloria?
In the early morning amidst the sound and feel of the city.
A thick wash of mist from the river.
I imagine your frame drawn out with blood and tissue.
But which of us falls apart when I open my eyes?

You will not be joining us tonight.
But you may observe.
Gloria, you may be watching from the Grandfather Clock.

Part 2: Invitation to Baker Street

Good fellow, won’t you dine with me tonight at mine residence?
Good food and good ales there will be.
Good fellow won’t you dine with me tonight?
You’ve opened my eyes to that which hath been ignored for so long.
I must absolve the guilt.

Part 3: The Tea Party Itself

Ah, Mrs Muffinstuffer, I’ve taken the liberty of inviting some of the lads round to dinner.
Forget the roast, these lads can’t eat tough beef.
These gentlemen have attained a high degree of tooth decay.
Soft enamel, smoked too many camels
Drank too much, out of touch
Of their lives on the street.

Whip up a batch of that yoghurt. I don’t know what’s in it but it’s delicious.
Little does he know that the yoghurt is actually the cause of the migraines and palpitations.
It’s not right.

Mrs Muffinstuffer can read, alright, but she won’t follow the recipe book. It’s called Hors D’Oevres of Other Nations, in case you were wondering. You won’t find it,
I bought that book from Sam Merlin in Cheapside who used to take boys down to his cellar.
Muffinstuffer’s had enough of the professor firing bullets at pillows and scorching the ceiling. So she adds a healthy dose of mercury and opium.

The Prof, as you will have read, has a complete grasp of chemistry, and he knows it’s in there, but he doesn’t say anything, he just goes on eating the yoghurt.

These dear little cheese scones contain formaldehyde.
But they’ll turn you into formaldejekyl, for just a little while.

Watson, make some name cards. One is for Sweeny.
One is for cockeyed Collin.
The other’s for White Chocolate Charlie.
Oh, he’s that albino from the indies, right?
Indeed. F*cking coon.

Part Four: Port and Cigars

This yoghurt was delicious, mine host.
May I propose a hearty toast?
I couldn’t have eaten a roast.

But now, the world is spinning
I’m blacking out on the floor
Only Sherlock knows what’s going on, they’re all going to die.

The death of a liberal, and three poor men.
Muffinstuffer cackles like a hen

Malthus gets his way.
And a tear rolls down Gloria’s bone dry skull.
Last edited by BrianApocalypse at Aug 22, 2008,
#2
Brian, I'm in no place to offer a critique--never mind an extensive one--but I adore your style. It's very you.