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Tim Minchin
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Perineum Millennium - The In-Between Years
Rust
Crawls down the side of my water tank life,
Cuts like a knife,
Sluts like my wife,
And you'd like her too.
People usually do.
Puss
Seeps from the seams of our festering souls,
Mostly just dripping,
Ghostly and gripping,
Slipping,
Slipping.
And if only I knew.
And if only I had the questions,
And the moment to ask.
If only I had the shoes in which to dance,
To take a chance to free myself
Enough to paint a portrait
Of my paternal grandma
Nude in public,
Rude and pubic,
Rubix. Cubic.
Sex
Resides in the core of my labyrinth mind.
Masturbating Minotaur,
Saucy and sinister,
Half man, half bullock,
Large swollen bollocks,
Mostly just swinging,
Itchy and stinging.
Stinging.
And there will be times, there will be times,
When sunset falls
Like a wingless bird -
Never to sing again,
Never to wing again,
There was an old man called Michael Finnegan,
He grew whiskers
Like magical Mr Mestopholes.
In the room the women come and go.
Talking of threesomes and Reality shows.
But if only they knew!
And if only they could see the light.
If only they could watch me try to write
The songs I long to write,
And right the wrongs I thought I might,
I mixed my colours with my whites
And now I fight the tide I fight
Mighty tight trousers,
And really big shoes.
And nothing to lose
But my stiffy.
I grow old, I grow scared
I shall wear my pre-worn trousers flared.
And while the shadow may lie
Between ideas and facts
One can lyrically wax
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The more interesting gaps
Like the soft bit that sits
Twixt your arseholes and sacks
We're living in the
Perineum Millennium
The in-between years
Not front bum or back bum
Not fiction or factum
Nor ideas or reality
Nor the shadow nor the hollow
Not a bosom for a pillow
Not Dante's big whinge
About cruising round Hades
The Perineum is yummy
As taties and gravy
It's quite big on the boys
But just small on the ladies
And can break all together
When the ladies have babies
And still we insist
On being brisk with the topic
In the fear the affair will turn
Colonoscopic
And we all know what Sigmund
Would say about that
As you lie on your back
Etherised on a table
Like the fabled evening
Spread out against the sky
Let us go then, you and I…
Fuck that, Freud you perverted
Viennese prat
Just cos you're a crack pot
Just cos you wacked off lots
As a little tacker
Your little pre-genius eyeball
Glued to the keyhole
When your mum's in the loo
And you, aged just 2
Sneaking a good ol' peep
At certain half-deserted streets
The fluttering retreats
Of your ma's 'meat Venetians',
As she bent over the bath,
Your future stared back
Like a glittering path,
Gilded with that golden Guilt,
Upon which you built
Your Oedipal empire.
But always you searched
For the soft bit unseen
Like text beneath the pages
Or the years between
The anal and genital phases.
The pereniul quest
Life's only true task
The only real test
We humans must pass
Begins at the testes
And ends at the arse.
This is the way the world ends.
This is the way the world ends.
This is the way the world ends.
Not with a full stop
But a colon.
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