"This is the first time I've ever been to Europe..." "The closest I've come was the... Ep-oh-nell-lay-a!" [Verse 1] I was playin’ my hurdy by Saint Laramie’s gate— Old strings hummin’ through a fuckin' drizzle of fate. Wide-brimmed man dropped a wax-sealed card, Didn’t say a fuckin' word, just walked off hard. It read: "Ten o’clock. East Larchmont Glen. Wear your mask. Say the word again." In calligraphy thick crimson script— “Ep-oh-nell-lay-a.” Hey! My first fuckin' gig! [Verse 2] So I dandied up with my peacock plume, Little velvet coat and my fuckin' best perfume. Doorman squinted at my bird beak mask— I said “Ep-oh-nell-lay-a.” He fuckin' let me pass. Inside: torch, tapestries, floors that shine— And masks like stallions, all equine. One brushed past and hissed in my ear, “Lose the fuckin' feathers. It's horses in here.” [Chorus 1] Oh Ep-oh-nell-lay-a, what do you mean? A festival? A flower queen? Be she a saint? Or some kind of tree? Ep-oh-nell-lay-a—unfold to me. [Verse 3] There were hands in hoof-gloves, sugar cube trays, Candlelight flickering, whickering neighs. One mare-masked dame galloped and spun— Her leather creaked with every lunge. A stallion snapped his rider’s crop, And called the dancers to their stop. Nobody laughed, nobody clapped— Just the sound of breath and something… trapped. Neigh!!!!!! [Chorus 2] Oh Ep-oh-nell-lay-a, must be some horse? Some secret herd, or a rider’s course? A masked parade within closed rooms? Ep-oh-nell-lay-a, explain your fuckin' tunes. [Bridge] Then the hall grew quiet. A bell was rung. A regal Clydesdale mask was hung On a figure in robes of woven night— He tromped through haze, swathed in light. He raised both arms... and let the cloak fuckin' fall— His ding-a-ling dangled, and I fuckin' saw it all! The guests undressed like it was fuckin' nothing— A hundred bodies, huffing and fuckin' puffing. [Verse 4] Stallions bucked in mirrored light, Tails were yanked and harnessed tight. Whinnies rose from every flank— Rumps were fuckin' slapped and bridles yanked. Painted mares in leather grips Dragged bit and bridle with their hips. I clutched my fuckin' gurdy, dared not play— I think I whispered, “Fuck! Is this okay?” [Chorus 3] Oh Ep-oh-nell-lay-a, bum-bums and fuckin' boobies? Some wiggles? A wobble? A spanking hoof? Do they just do the fuckin' squishy stuff and scream? Ep-oh-nell-lay-a—is this a fuckin' dream? [Outro] “Sometimes a gig’s not what you reckon. But a musician plays. I don't ask no fuckin' questions.” Ep-oh-nell-lay-a! Ep-oh-nell-lay-a! "Maybe more of a French thing... Thanks, Zürich!!"
