Bangs and splats and bonks and clanks, are sounds no one enjoys;
The world has come to know this racket, collectively as “noise.”
The [stuff] we hear from day to day, can surely turn us blue.
There’s so much noise I have to say: It’s coming out my dang wazoo!
Fireworks and thunderstorms, honking horns and angry masses;
Screaming kids and car commercials, not to mention braying asses!
Plumbers snaking nasty clogs,
Lumberjacks who saw their logs.
Drunken blondes,
and high school proms,
And don’t forget those yapping dogs.
Then you’ve got the rusted clunker, blaring “music” at a light,
The driver howls long and loud, it’s him that I wish God would smite!
The great outdoors, brings noise to rue,
Traffic, trains and airplanes too.
It seems to me like going inside
Would give us all a place to hide,
But it’s not even worth the try,
Because inside we’re greeted by:
Crying babies, cranky sisters, and that vacuum which I hate,
Nagging moms and moody bros, plus a dad who is irate.
Other things that bring us noise, are things I truly wish were fake:
These are the things that pierce our ears, and just make noise for noise’s sake:
Firetrucks and air raid sirens, plus little Timmy’s drumming practice,
And the painful screams of one, who just sat down upon a cactus. [ow! ow! ow!]
The noisy party right next door, a gassy uncle on the can.
Ghetto blasters on the porch, and exploding cars in Pakistan.
[Sigh]
Here’s a boring fact to know, should you decide to give a hoot:
Our dismal modern word of “noise,” it actually has a Latin root!
It’s the truth but I’ll admit, I know it sounds a little dumb:
The ancient word for “nausea,” is where our word of “noise” comes from.
But noise for sure will twist my gut, I tell you it’s no fluke:
That too much noise it is enough, to make me want to go and puke.
I’m quite the sage on “all-things-noise,” but for that I am not proud,
’cause the place that I live now, is louder than the loudest loud.
It’s louder than a huge rock crusher, louder than some hungry bears,
It’s louder than some pots and pans, that have been tossed down metal stairs.
This ringing place where I now live, is a place that sure ain’t swell,
Sadly now I live in PRISON; it’s louder than the loudest hell.
The dreadful doors behind you close, with groans and slams and haunting clanks,
Then scrapes and rasps pollute the air, as the lifers grind their shanks.
Anguished wails are also heard, the soul they will besmirch,
They are the empty, ghostly screams, from a dude that’s being strip searched!
Concrete, steel and bars of iron, plus the warden’s caustic roar,
Down the cellblock his yell echoes, for what seems like evermore.
And inmates too have many sounds, for your ears to witness,
Especially when they’re in the bathroom, while they do their business.
[Cringe]
The prison P.A. also shrieks, it’s a cracklin’ heap of crap,
I think its parts were salvaged from, a surplus load of army scrap.
The P.A. tech’s a goofy loon, he needs a real good smack,
’Cause back when hair bands ruled the world, he got trained at Radio Shack.
[Ugggh!]
The P.A. system it does screech, a sound that’s hard render,
And on your poor and aching ears, it’s not the least bit tender.
It’s a noise that is a drag,
Like an old and naggy hag,
Or like some kid threw rusty nails, down into a kitchen blender.
This coming fact is something which, I wish that I could strike,
But a ghetto is just what, prison is exactly like.
Screaming, gunshots and the Po-Po, with lots of crashing glass,
Plus washed up gangstas sportin’ ‘tudes, and ghetto mommas givin’ sass.
A ghetto could be near the airport, or tracks where trains roam free,
It might be near the city dump, or worse it might be NEAR ALL THREE!
I believe it’s more than ample, to say “it don’t sound good,”
That any prison where you’re found, will be in some old ghetto ‘hood.
[Shudder]
The noise begins as you are marched, through that giant prison foyer,
With many barks and cat calls too, and a windbag jailhouse lawyer.
The prison lawyer works inside, a cell that’s kinda smoky,
He has ideas that some may claim, are just a tad bit hokey,
Perhaps he knows about the law,
But there is just one tiny flaw:
He’s still locked up with life to go, rotting here inside the pokey.
[Eye roll]
Prison also has “that guy,” who acts like he’s a ‘tard,
He never seems to shut his mouth, he is the prison blowhard.
“My I.Q.’s insanely high,” he says while staying calm,
“And I’ve bagged a load of chicks, because I am ‘da bomb’”
But he is just a noisy fraud,
Who is dumpy and quite bald,
He probably lived out life before, in a trailer with his mom.
[Affirmative nod]
Then we have that giant thug, who I would like to stone,
’Cause he yells the whole damn day, at his girlfriends on the phone:
“I’m the greatest man on earth, and don’t forget you is my honey,”
But this mo-fo is so broke, it ain’t even kinda funny.
So stop this act of being cold,
And start be doin’ what you’re told:
It’s time for bitches that I own, to hurry up and send me money!”
[Sigh]
Yes indeed you heard that right, we get that here a lot,
If that sounds exaggerated, believe me: IT IS NOT!
The noises that we hear in prison, come at us in gobs,
From yeggs and thieves and greasy cons, to big fat hairy blobs!
But a noise that we too hear,
Is a sound that might cause fear:
It’s the beat of crooked business, from the prison family mobs:
[Shudder]
[The Russian Mafia]
“We make noises NOT of glee, to try and fool the KGB.”
[The Jewish Mafia]
“Please enjoy a fresh knish, while you’re tortured with some Yiddish!”
[The Gay Mafia]
“That stuff you’re wearing is RIGHT OUT! We’ve deemed your outfit “not quite crisp,”
You’d better go and change right now, or we’ll kill you with our lisp!”
[The Latino Mafia]
“We dance and sing and make the hooplas, while we eat our fried chalupas.”
[Then of course there’s the Mafia-Mafia]
“Someone was singin’, when they shoulda been mums,
Now he is screaming, ’cause we cut off his thumbs!”
[Resigned sigh]
The noises that we hear in lockup, are surely NOT too tame,
And sadly respite can’t be found, with any kind of prison game.
Simple games of yore we loved, didn’t leave our eardrums bruised,
But those same games played in prison, are WAY too loud and QUITE confused.
Chess is played by those in prison, who really aren’t the smartest,
Victory is claimed by those, who pound the pieces hardest.
People playing cards in prison, they will need some separation,
’Cause those games are sponsored by, a psycho wrestling federation.
And there’s a game with letter tiles, that will cause you to get smacked,
It looks a bit like standard Scrabble, but you play it with full-contact.
I wish that I could say I’m through, but sadly there’s another game.
And being loudest-of-them-all, is its nasty claim to fame.
It’s a game that’s SO DANG LOUD, all the other noises drown,
It is a lot like Dominos, but you can hear it all ‘cross town!
It’s a game called “Slaminos,”
’Cause it causes eardrum blows,
The rules they are about the same, except you SLAM the pieces DOWN!
[Good grief]
Music is another sound, which usually ain’t called “noise,”
’Cause for the most part it’s a sound, that everyone enjoys.
[Affirmative nod]
But the music heard in prison, I promise on you it won’t grow,
’Cause in the hoosegow’s where you’ll find, the dreaded prison radio.
This dreaded prison radio, will offer quite a scare,
’Cause the noise it does emit, is an awful, horrid blare.
It seems that “music” heard in prison, is rather undefined,
I suppose it counts as “music,” if there are notes and lyrics rhymed.
But know that here you heard it first,
That prison music is THE WORST!
In fact to even call it music, is being just a little kind.
And to boot those songs you hear, surely did not come from heaven,
’Cause every vulgar, grisly note, is cranked up too eleven!
The numbers that you hear in prison, are really quite aghasting,
They will leave scars on your soul, that are long and deep and lasting,
The “singers” are insanely rude,
And the lyrics kinda lude,
’Cause you sure ain’t hearing Yanni, and it ain’t Enya that they’re blasting!
Those awful prison radios, are boosted up with extra amps,
The noisy racket’s sure to cause you, NOT to want to go and dance.
There’s a good chance that it’s rap,
And it will be as loud as crap,
It will scare you so dang much, that you might go and pee your pants.
And when an inmate’s radio, has been placed upon a shelf,
He’ll bellow, bark and moan and howl, as he tries to sing himself.
[Cringe]
From the school of Julliard, these inmates ARE NOT grads,
Screeching sounds and sour notes, are belted out in scads,
You’re going to want to go and flee,
’Cause they’re just “a tad” off key,
They sound a bit like someone has, done ripped off their hairy nads!
I can’t believe the awful noise, I hear from all these goons,
It’s more than just a little like, living with some dang baboons,
Prison noise is quite a curse,
That’s now become a little worse,
’Cause someone’s grabbed an effing squeezebox, and now they’re playing polka tunes!
[AAAAAHHHHH!]
But if you want me to be honest, I’ve enjoyed some good fruitions,
’Cause as I’ve languished in this clink, I’ve actually met some good musicians.
They strum on the six-string, to be heard down the hall,
And tickle the ivories, with hardly a flaw.
I don’t have to cover, my ears up with tape,
’Cause the sound they create, is a joyful escape.
Perhaps I should stop, all of this scorning,
My continued complaints, should serve as a warning.
My tongue I should bite it,
’Cause prison IS quiet,
For six to eight minutes, ‘round three in the morning.
[Eye roll]
But eerie quiet which lasts too long, can be a bit foreboding,
’Cause now a mouse fart it does sound, like a bomb that is exploding,
In that regard they’re some soft sounds, for which I’d start a picket.
First on tap a sound I hate: the lonely dripping spigot!
But I too have cringed,
Then come unhinged,
From the putrid awful sound, of a single chirping cricket.
[Make it stop!]
Then of course there is a murmur, which burns up all my merry,
It’s the sound of that one guy, who whispers in the library!
[Fist shake]
But even for the bunch of us, who’d choose a noiseless diet,
There are places on this earth, that are just a tad TOO quiet:
Mausoleums, ancient crypts, and the cemetery,
Funeral parlors, city morgues and a mortuary.
[Hmmm?]
For perhaps a little noise, something might be said:
For if there is no noise at all, perhaps we might be dead?
But even with this different view, there’s more than one like me,
Where any boom or clank or splat, will make us want to go and flee.
I’ll cross any road, that even seems crossable,
To avoid as much noise, as humanly possible!
Noise absorbing ceiling tiles, leather muzzles for those dogs,
Toilet paper in my ears, and rubber soles on wooden clogs!
Hinterlands are the escape, when city noises chide us,
And please make sure to take a car, with a muffler that’s from Midas!
Pillows held up too my ears, ’cause that naggy wife’s no fun,
And when you’re rubbing someone out, PUT A SILENCER ON THAT GUN!
The endless sound that rings this world, will cause an awful fright,
But in a weird and backwards way, something happens in this light.
It is a little more than funny,
That people go and spend their money,
To buy a different brand of noise, which wears a label that states: “white”
The single dripping spigot, might make you climb the walls,
But a million dripping spigots? sounds like Niagara Falls.
At first that might seem bad, but this I have to say:
Niagara Falls is loud, but in a different way.
As I think about this more, there’s a point I might be proving:
There’s some noise we know so well, it actually might be soothing.
[?]
In that regard a place I love, is a place that makes life slower,
Though it’s a place where sound roars loud, I wouldn’t want it any lower.
It’s where my thoughts do come untwirled,
In my own sequestered world,
While I’m lost out on my lawn, pushin’ ‘round my John Deere mower.
As the mower roars its roar, the stress of life will flee,
And my mind I’ll let it wander, to those things which cause me glee:
I can think about girls,
Or mowing down squirrels
Or just have a chat, with the maker of me.
Sometimes God will speak to us, in the midst of noisy clatter,
But my mower does work well, to drown out all the chatter.
Those corners of silence, have a high price to pay,
’Cause our world has been made, of ruckus and fray,
So through all the noise,
Please hold your poise,
And use it to help, hear what God has to say.
There will be windstorms, that just don’t seem fair
And earthquakes to shake us, which will cause quite a scare,
And fires I’ll mention,
Will draw our attention,
But the voice of the lord, may NOT be in there¹
With all of this noise, that makes my ears blister,
I sometimes wish God’s, message was crisper,
But listen real close,
It may seem like a ghost,
As the Lord’s voice is gentle, like the sound of a whisper²
[Alas]
The noise of this world, comes in all types,
More often than not, it gives us the gripes!
But with God we’ll sustain,
Through audible pain
So long as nobody, whips out their bagpipes!
[Cringe]
¹1 Kings 19:11–12
²1 Kings 19:13
