Bonus: The Lead Infantry’s Last Parade

Military Blues Noir, Beatnik Jazz March, Dark Vaudeville

(Verse)
Attention! The Sergeant is a thimble-sized man
With a map of the city drawn on a discarded soda can
He’s shouting commands to an army of lead
Marching on the ceiling of a bed-bound head
Their bayonets are needles, their boots are made of tin
And they’re climbing up the mountain of the original sin.

(Verse)
Left, right, watch the cracks in the floor
We’re invading the kitchen, we’re storming the door
The Lieutenant is a button, the Corporal’s a crumb
And they’re keeping perfect time to the rhythm of the hum
Of a refrigerator failing in a studio flat
Where the only casualty’s the shadow of the cat.

(Verse)
(Voice drops to a conspiratorial, rasping whisper)
They’ve got orders to conquer the dust bunnies’ lair
To establish a stronghold in the static of the air
It’s a strategic nightmare, a Vaudeville war
They’re fighting for the secrets that were buried in the floor
The enemy is gravity, the enemy is time
And the casualty reports are written in a doggerel rhyme.

(Verse)
(Voice shifts to an exaggerated, wheezing theatrical tone)
Look at the cavalry, mounted on mice!
Racing toward the border at a terrible price
They’re terrified of toasters, they’re suspicious of the light
But they’re absolute legends in the middle of the night
They’ve conquered the coffee grounds, they’ve seized the kitchen sink
And they’re waiting for the signal just to tip us over the brink.

(Verse)
(Music swells—the trombone slides into a chaotic, dizzying swell; the junk-percussion—a clatter of spoons and tin lids—kicks in hard)
The parade is collapsing! The formation is shot!
They’re melting in the heat of a memory I forgot
The tiny soldiers are drowning in a puddle of gin
As the ceiling starts to sag and the walls start to thin
It’s a glorious defeat, it’s a beautiful rout
The smallest, saddest war that you ever heard about.

(Outro)
(The band suddenly hits a harsh, dissonant chord and halts. The military snare continues alone for three bars, slowing down until it’s just a tired, uneven tapping.)
"At ease, boys.
The world’s already gone and crumbled on its own.
Nobody needs to invade a ruin.
Nobody needs to conquer the dust.
But... keep the rhythm, won't you?
Just in case."
(A final, lone accordion wheeze fades into the sound of a match being struck and a long, weary exhale.)

2643/7500

(Intro) (A military snare starts—dry, wooden, and jittery. A plucked upright bass enters with a limping, heavy lurch. The accordion wheezes a discordant, minor-key fanfare. Suddenly, a baritone sax growls low, like an engine struggling to turn over in the cold. A muted trumpet hits a sharp, satirical note that bends downward into a sigh.) (Verse) Attention! The Sergeant is a thimble-sized man With a map of the city drawn on a discarded soda can He’s shouting commands to an army of lead Marching on the ceiling of a bed-bound head Their bayonets are needles, their boots are made of tin And they’re climbing up the mountain of the original sin. (Verse) Left, right, watch the cracks in the floor We’re invading the kitchen, we’re storming the door The Lieutenant is a button, the Corporal’s a crumb And they’re keeping perfect time to the rhythm of the hum Of a refrigerator failing in a studio flat Where the only casualty’s the shadow of the cat. (Verse) (Voice drops to a conspiratorial, rasping whisper) They’ve got orders to conquer the dust bunnies’ lair To establish a stronghold in the static of the air It’s a strategic nightmare, a Vaudeville war They’re fighting for the secrets that were buried in the floor The enemy is gravity, the enemy is time And the casualty reports are written in a doggerel rhyme. (Verse) (Voice shifts to an exaggerated, wheezing theatrical tone) Look at the cavalry, mounted on mice! Racing toward the border at a terrible price They’re terrified of toasters, they’re suspicious of the light But they’re absolute legends in the middle of the night They’ve conquered the coffee grounds, they’ve seized the kitchen sink And they’re waiting for the signal just to tip us over the brink. (Verse) (Music swells—the trombone slides into a chaotic, dizzying swell; the junk-percussion—a clatter of spoons and tin lids—kicks in hard) The parade is collapsing! The formation is shot! They’re melting in the heat of a memory I forgot The tiny soldiers are drowning in a puddle of gin As the ceiling starts to sag and the walls start to thin It’s a glorious defeat, it’s a beautiful rout The smallest, saddest war that you ever heard about. (Outro) (The band suddenly hits a harsh, dissonant chord and halts. The military snare continues alone for three bars, slowing down until it’s just a tired, uneven tapping.) "At ease, boys. The world’s already gone and crumbled on its own. Nobody needs to invade a ruin. Nobody needs to conquer the dust. But... keep the rhythm, won't you? Just in case." (A final, lone accordion wheeze fades into the sound of a match being struck and a long, weary exhale.)

0/500