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MC Frontalot
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Start Over
Little Red Riding Hood was in good
with the food distribution, by her own volition
choosing to sincerely deliver
to old folks：succor; also vigor;
cheese and crackers; salt and coffee;
medicine to help the heart beat softly.
Awfully kind in her mission,
Red was (yes) in a head-on collision
with the forces of trouble,
long in the tooth plus stubble. And this goes double
for all little girls: know who wolves are.
Don't be telling them where you're going, how far
in what direction it is, especially if
it's the unguarded cottage where Grama lives.
This is just common sense
(with which Little Red dispensed).
Hence, she proceeded on her way
through the woods to Grama's place.
Little Red Riding Hood rolled up,
took one look and was like what the... uh,
what the heck? Grama got a hairy neck?
Teeth enough to get wrecked?
Next up: wood axe swinging.
That's how it happened. That's all I'm singing.
That's the story (that ain't how it happened...)
I won't start over if you don't stop yapping.
(shhhh)
Wolves got it hard on this earth,
ever the subjects of defamation and mirth,
first in line to be out there, lurking,
eyeing ingénues and smirking,
working on a master plan,
trying to get fed about the best he can.
Wondering if Grama got much meat,
endeavoring not to be indiscreet:
“How many them baskets she go through a month?
How does she react when she misses lunch?
And what direction was she living in, again?
Well, you better hurry up and go and visit her then.”
But wolves are speedier than little girls.
Barely pausing to devour jackrabbits and squirrels,
the wolf arrived.
All the rest, despicable lies.
Find more lyrics at ※ Mojim.com
All that talk of assumed identity,
let it be. This wolf was indelibly
wolf-like, forthright too.
He said, “Grama, here's what I'll do:
swallow you whole, your kinfolk for after,
then I'll keep living, so you don't have to.
Sorry, starving wolf, no choice.
To get in the gullet, just follow my voice.”
(That ain't how it happened...)
All right, Grama was hanging alone,
cultivating the medicine for the glaucoma.
She paid rent in the forest. It was inexpensive.
Grama's house was in the intensively
wolf-rife section of town.
She didn't mind, she liked a wild hound.
Sound at the door: an intruder!
“Is that you, Red? You brought food for
me to eat?” “Nope, the opposite.
No hard candy, no soft chocolate.
Just a wolf belly for you to inhabit,
and I will need your nightshirt for the next gambit.”
Clandestinely reclining in bed,
the wolf awaits (for Red!),
expecting their usual banter:
“How's school?” “Fine, Grama,
here's food.” “Thanks dear.”
Instead it's all, “What's up with the ears?
Eyes? Nose? Throat? Teeth?”
“Little Red Riding Hood, why you giving me grief?
Bodies change as the years advance,
soft features grow unkind to the glance,
and hairs sprout.
All of it the better for you getting in my mouth!”
“Wow, it's dark in here,” says Grama.
Here comes the wood axe, swinging like “Yeah, y'all!”
Old woman, come on back out,
and you keep the axe. Wolves abound.
That's the story (that ain't how it happened...)
That's all I got, so you commence napping.
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