I love fat cat city, I fit in so incredibly well!
This song was sung by Poindexter, friend from the dell.
Here it is okay to have lusciously large thighs and hips
We make fun of the teeny tiny cats unfed on ships
I love fat city, where big fluffy toms dwell and pants aren’t creased
Poindexter gave himself a savvy mirror sneak look, and he was pleased
This is the place I had been looking for my entire life.
A place to find a Rubenesque rounded curvy doxy of a wife.
Backseat bingo- such a blast!
Passion pit- made in the shade.
Fat City- cranked and crazy!
With dolly- cloud nine!
In Gentilly she reigns as Bastet, the daughter of Ra,
An unrepentant drop of golden sun.
Then come some rascal Baphomet, an outcast by law,
A desperado conman on the run.
She teased him with her laser pointer cat’s eyes
To get him sniffing ‘round her litter box.
He jumped at something spooky and she got his goat;
A perfect puss and booty paradox.
She’s a Fat City kitty cat
Sitting in her parlor with a Ouija board.
And she’s conjuring visions of feline intent,
Clawing at the night for her reward.
In Jefferson Parish she covers the odds
With fifty shades of gray behind the door.
Her menu offers Creole faire on Sundays;
She’ll let you taste her etouffee, and more.
In Algiers she appears like an omen,
Then vanishes again as sure as sin.
You can bet an honest dollar on her virtue,
And lose it when she plays her violin.
She’s a Fat City kitty cat.
Her Tarot cards can turn a pretty trick.
Her rivals try to plagiarize her voodoo.
She isn’t just another Cajun chick.
No, she’s a Fat City kitty cat,
A diva with a loyal entourage.
She’ll do her Fat City this and that,
And treat you to a Bourbon Street massage.
Premiered at Rugged Old Crossroads Community Mission,
New Orleans, LA – 10/16/2013
ACT 1
SEEKING LABYRINTHIA
BLUE JACKET BON VOYAGE
SAILING THE SEVEN SEAS
SHIP IN A BOTTLE
ISLAND OF DON DI VON KAIRE
BOX WINE BLUES
THREE HAPPY ITALIANS
VOYAGE
SUNSET BALLAD
ACT 2
LABYRINTHIA
NIKITA SOMETHING
VIGILENT MOJO
MEMPHIS BELLE
UN PEU COMME LA PLUIE
ZULLY’S APOLOGY
ROUGH WOMEN ACTION
XERXES SURVEYS HIS REALM
INTERMISSION FOOL
ACT 3
BAAAD POETS
FUNERAL STRUT
BLIND WILLIE’S SKETCHPAD
MAKING MANDY BEG
TOO MANY WOMEN
CURRICULUM VITAE
FAT CITY KITTY CAT
I WAS A TEENAGE SHAKESPEARE
SHE’S THE CENTERFOLD
Your fig tree in January, denuded now
is more stately, if possible, in its stark seasonal
solemnity than in summer's exacting extravagance.
Its trunk, massive in manhood, is a citadel, supporting
the curving bowl of branches as they bend back
into themselves, becoming the bare, black sculpture
Hemingway described in Paris in the 'Jardin
de Luxembourg,' where following in his footsteps,
we once strolled among old men playing
chess, lovers entwined on park benches,
fat city pigeons seeking sustenance.
These prayerful branches, grown as large as
the beanstalk giant of storybook lore, cup the sky--
and two gigantic roots, visible above ground
in winter definition, should they be feet, would
rock our foundations. Sprawling out in different
directions, siblings still, they disappear below earth
to wherever they travel--who knows where?
Unlike Jack on his leafy ladder, climbing sky-
ward, they turned toward some
southern provenance: Provence, perhaps,
as if impassioned for home.
You didn't go to fight World War II in Japan,
You didn't ever go to FAT CITY,
but smooched with a DOLLY
in my washed and waxed Chevy van!
Looking like a real DUCK-BUTT,
you have the looks of a clown, not a CAT...
staring at that long-legged PAPER-SHAKER!
Eat more cereal, ANKLE-BITER!
You didn't learn to drive and lead,
for a grown man that's a NOSE-BLEED!
You didn't go to those night BASHES...
never being attracted to fake eyelashes!
GREASER, PILE-UP-Z'S or GET A LIGHTER!
Put down the HORN you bought at the Country Fair;
don't answer back as you usually do...CUT-THE-GAS,
or AGITATE-THE GRAVEL with quick toes!
The six strings on the wall
Don’t mean a thing anymore
The poster behind them
Doesn’t remind me of Strawberry Fields anymore
(or childhood car rides back from grandma’s)
I know longer plug in my father’s old record player
(Just to hear Fat City)
But still every time I hear a melody without lyrics
I make them up
And they are always about you
Or a girl like you,
Names don’t matter
It’s the thought
that I will never change.
It’s all because of you
You’ve always liked my eyes
But you’ve never tried to read them
You’ve always laughed
And I guess I look away
Maybe it’s my fault,
I just don’t want to stare.
The neck is twisted
But it has been that way for as long as I have had it
My mother left it in the garage
And let it find its own shape.
But if I had a choice,
I would have a straight neck.
I would have new nylon strings.
I would be at my full potential.
Each string,
Harsh when plucked,
Doesn’t mean a thing to me anymore,
And my Michael Omartian record may as well
Be warped too.
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