Tortilla in Ariminum

[Intro: whispered tenor, dry percussion, rising feedback] White dust. Warm water. The Gospel according to— STRUTTO! [Full-band hit] [Verse 1: syncopated high tenor, agile bass, 148 BPM] Build a little crater in the flour, Salt the rim and name the hour. Fold the pale fat through the snow, Warm rain falling soft and slow. Heel of the hand, turn of the wrist, Drag the winter through the mist. Gather every ghost you spilled— KNEAD UNTIL THE NOISE IS STILL! [Pre-Chorus: brief 7/8 turnaround, rising falsetto] Soft to the touch, Firm to the palm— Wrap the little weather up. LET IT CALM! [Chorus: explosive high tenor, sustained vibrato] DON’T CREMATE THE MOON! Turn it! Turn it! Gold with little freckles— DON’T YOU OVERBURN IT! DON’T CREMATE THE MOON! I called upon the ancient ones— THEY SAID, “WE’RE EATING SOON!” [Instrumental break: angular guitar, congas, tight unison stops] [Verse 2: rapid elastic phrasing, driving 4/4] Half an hour beneath the shroud, Let the thunder leave the cloud. Split the silence, round each stone, Roll a little sun of your own. Dust the altar, sweep it thin, Turn the disc and start again. Not a wafer, not a wheel— Something soft enough to seal. No cold sea. No oven tomb. JUST THE HOT IRON— MAKE SOME ROOM! [Chorus: explosive high tenor, sustained vibrato] DON’T CREMATE THE MOON! Turn it! Turn it! Gold with little freckles— DON’T YOU OVERBURN IT! DON’T CREMATE THE MOON! I called upon the ancient ones— THEY SAID, “WE’RE EATING SOON!” [Bridge: sudden half-time feel, spacious dub bass, whispered vocal] Lay the daylight on the iron. Watch the little planets rise. Pierce the swollen constellations— Keep your fingers. Use your eyes. Turn the heaven. Check below. Brown little islands. Not a continent of coal. [Drums cut, dry spoken vocal] Is that smoke part of the ritual? [Full-band hit, piercing vibrato cry] TURN IT NOOOOW! [Instrumental: full-speed return, spiraling guitar, brief 7/8 breaks] [Verse 3: mounting urgency, theatrical tenor] Stack the suns beneath a cloth, Keep them tender, keep them soft. Snow-white cheese, a peppered leaf, Cured red ribbons folded neat. Squacquerone, spill your grace, Down my wrist and into space. Fold the sky around the feast— THE GODS CAN WAIT. I NEED TO EAT! [Final Chorus: ecstatic high tenor, altered melody] DON’T CREMATE THE MOON! Fold it! Fold it! Heaven’s leaking down my sleeve— SOMEBODY HOLD IT! DON’T CREMATE THE MOON! The oracle has spoken— “MAKE ANOTHER TWO!” [Outro: dry spoken vocal, abrupt ending] Beautiful. You've made a tortilla. [High indignant vibrato] PIIIADIIIINA! (The gospel according to... Strutto...) [guitar spyraling to the end] PIIIADIIIINA! [end]