A Verbal Fig Leaf · Track 36 · middle

Fun Bags

Fun Bags (1960s) — Two blunt syllables and a plural. Sixty years earlier this was an apple-dumpling shop. VOLUME: IV. THE LOCKER ROOM, 1900–1999. THE DODGE THIS ERA: The dodge stops being clever. Nobody is hiding from God or the parlour now — they're avoiding MIXED COMPANY, and the wit drains out. These are funny the way a nudge is funny. That's the point: the invention is going, and this volume should feel a bit dumber than the last on purpose. Sing the AVOIDANCE, never the anatomy.

No audio yet — generation pending.

Lyrics

[Intro]

[Verse 1]
She’s walking back from the souvenir shops
Carrying the weekend in each hand
A couple of heavy canvas sacks
Full of things she’s carefully planned
I’m sitting here with the lads at the bar
Two-and-six for a pint of mild
I need a joke to cut the smoke
And keep the fellas smiling

[Chorus]
I’m not a poet from the old days
I don’t have a painted phrase to drop
I couldn't give you the elegant name
From the apple-dumpling shop
I just lean to my right in the yellow light
While she’s putting down the load
And I give a little nudge to say
Here come the fun bags, boys, we’re on the road

[Verse 2]
It’s a sharp decline in history's wit
From a sonnet to a sudden grunt
But the wife is standing near enough to hear
So I can't be overly blunt
The brain measures the gap between her ear
And the rib where my elbow lands
It’s a cheap little dodge for a cheap little room
With a glass in my idle hands

[Chorus]
I’m not a poet from the old days
I don’t have a painted phrase to drop
I couldn't give you the elegant name
From the apple-dumpling shop
I just lean to my right in the yellow light
While she’s putting down the load
And I give a little nudge to say
Here come the fun bags, boys, we’re on the road

[Bridge]
No one is hiding from God anymore
There’s no king to offend in the hall
Just mixed company down at the local
And a joke that takes no thought at all
Two syllables flat on the table top
Heavy and dumb as a stone

[Guitar Solo]

[Outro]
She asks if I’m ready to pack the boot
I tell her to give me a sec
Just bagging the last of the laughter
Before we pay the cheque
Two heavy syllables
And a nudge in the ribs
Yeah, that’s all we’ve got left