motorpsycho nitemare


[** Isso sim é que é saber contar uma história!!! fiufiuuuuu! ]
I pounded on a farmhouse lookin’ for a place to stay. I was mighty, mighty tired, I had gone a long, long way. I said, “Hey, hey, in there, Is there anybody home?” I was standin’ on the steps feelin’ most alone. Well, out comes a farmer, he must have thought that I was nuts. He immediately looked at me and stuck a gun into my guts.
I fell down to my bended knees, saying, “I dig farmers, don’t shoot me, please!” He cocked his rifle and began to shout, “You’re that travelin’ salesman that I have heard about.” I said, “No! No! No! I’m a doctor and it’s true, I’m a clean-cut kid and I been to college, too.”
Then in comes his daughter whose name was Rita. She looked like she stepped out of La Dolce Vita. I immediately tried to cool it with her dad, and told him what a nice, pretty farm he had. He said, “What do doctors know about farms, pray tell?” I said, “I was born at the bottom of a wishing well.”
Well, by the dirt ‘neath my nails I guess he knew I wouldn’t lie. “I guess you’re tired,” He said, kinda sly. I said, “Yes, ten thousand miles today I drove.” He said, “I got a bed for you underneath the stove. Just one condition and you go to sleep right now, that you don’t touch my daughter and in the morning, milk the cow.”
I was sleepin’ like a rat when I heard something jerkin’. There stood Rita lookin’ just like Tony Perkins. She said, “Would you like to take a shower? I’ll show you up to the door.” I said, “Oh, no! no! I’ve seen this film before.” I knew I had to split but I didn’t know how, when she said, “Would you like to take that shower, now?”
Well, I couldn’t leave unless the old man chased me out, ‘cause I’d already promised that I’d milk his cows. I had to say something to strike him very weird, So I yelled out, “I like Fidel Castro and his beard.” Rita looked offended but she got out of the way, as he came charging down the stairs sayin’, “What’s that I heard you say?”
I said, “I like Fidel Castro, I think you heard me right,” and ducked as he swung at me with all his might. Rita mumbled something ‘bout her mother on the hill, as his fist hit the icebox, he said he’s going to kill me if I don’t get out the door in two seconds flat, “You unpatriotic, rotten doctor Commie rat.”
Well, he threw a Reader’s Digest at my head and I did run, I did a somersault as I seen him get his gun and crashed through the window at a hundred miles an hour, and landed fully blast in his garden flowers. Rita said, “Come back!” as he started to load the sun was comin’ up and I was runnin’ down the road.
Well, I don’t figure I’ll be back there for a spell, even though Rita moved away And got a job in a motel. He still waits for me, constant, on the sly. He wants to turn me in to the F.B.I. Me, I romp and stomp, thankful as I romp, without freedom of speech, I might be in the swamp.
R. Zimmerman /1964.

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