So there's this pretty well-known song from the days of my youth, about some creepy guy having impure thoughts about his downstairs neighbor, whom he wants to bang on the ceiling to agree to a téte-a-téte
, or on the pipe if she ain't gonna show. Pretty standard pop drivel.
Now, thinking about song lyrics is a hazardous occupation. While the lyrics of somebody like Oingo Boingo or Jazz Butcher will hold up very well to scrutiny, the lyrics of most pop drivel will not. Nevertheless, I'm a word guy ... thinking about text is what I do
So the following passage goes by:
I can hear the music playing
I can feel your body swaying
One floor below me
you don't even know me
I love you
Do I think to myself, "Ah, what a romantic little metaphor?" No, of course not, don't be silly. I think to myself, "Wow, you can feel her body swaying from all the way down there? She must be a mighty large woman!"
That, in turn, leads me to visions of Tony Orlando (liesure suit, horrible baby-eating moustache, and all) singing this tender love ballad to an enormous she-ogre in a little black dress with a crumpled daisy in the ratty mass of straw-like hair on her head -- and of course, she's blushing and giggly.
Now my brain hurts, and it will probably be hurting all night.
So why am I telling all of you this? Well, I figure ... misery loves company.
The Bailey's might have had something to do with it, too.