Stacks Image 34
Recorded 2015
Label: Sireena Records
Vocals, Guitar, Acoustic Bass, additional instruments and percussion –Paul Roland
Bass – Joshua Roland
Drums – Violet the Cannibal

I'm The Result Of An Experiment (Which Went Hideously Wrong)
Dali's Dream
Devil's Jukebox
I've Been Hearing Voices
Zanti Misfits
Bitter And Twisted
Another Me
William Bonny's Trigger Finger
Professor Feather
Born In The 60s
Bonus Tracks
Bitter And Twisted (Again) (Outtake)
Candyman (Acoustic Demo)
Hugo (Alternate Version)
Featuring – Alan Jenkins
Zanti Misfits (Alternate Version)
Featuring – Alan Jenkins
Devil's Jukebox (Acoustic Demo)

I’m The Result Of An Experiment (Which Went Hideously Wrong)
I wasn’t quite right from the start. Not what you’d call a work of art.
So I thought no harm could come if I had it all undone.
Still, I should have thought it through as any sound chap I would do.
For my appearance is a damn disgrace my features are all over the place.
I daren’t go out ‘cause if I do, i don’t know who l’ll run into.
Though they’ll act like nothing’s wrong they’ll make it clear l don’t belong.
Like the dude in Dali’s dream or the poor sap in “the Scream”
they’ll call me an impressionist, an abstract exhibitionist,
‘cause l’m the result of an experiment which went hideously wrong.
Things don’t always turn out right, the way you want or think they might
in my case it’s plain to see I would not have wished this thing on me,
‘cause now lam a wretched creature after a radical procedure
which has altered my appearance, left my face with no coherence.
Dali's Dream
Salvador Dali’s nanny said, “The melting clock says time boy, now there's! v
a dear up the wooden stairs to Bedfordshire. Brush yourteeth and say your prayers, you’ll
find your nightshirt on the chair.” The little chap was good as gold, young Dali did as he
was told. He closed his eyes, he counted sheep and pretty soon was sound asleep. Down
the winding stair he climbed, into the mansions of the Mind. And through the first of many
doors, opening on a dozen more and thence to an unfamiliar scene, not a surrealist’s dream.
No floating heads on burning sands, no grasping disembodied hands. No uglies hatching
from an egg or elephants on stilt—like legs, but faceless suits like Rene Magritte sleepwalking
in their dreamless sleep. Swept up in the surging throng the seething mass bore him along.
Now writhing like a drowning man, he screamed as only Munchkins can, “Let me out, for
goodness sake! And I swear that when i wake l’ll not drown in the mainstream all aboard
the 8.15. it’s not part of the grand design that I should ride tile, Northern line."
I had a friend, was one of a kind, he always knew what was on my mind. We had ourselves a first class act, until he went behind my back
To look at him, you’d never guess what a personality he possessed. I knew it was just a matter of time before he learned to speak his mind.
l'm coming apart at the seams. l whisper but inside I scream
I fear that I’m losing my mind, I’m dying one piece at a time.
I caught him talking out of turn, I had to be firm or he’d never learn.
If he thinks l’m finished he doesn’t understand Wha‘t kind of dummy does he think l am? You wouldn't leave, wouldn’t do that to me? Oh, wouldn't I? Just you wait and see.
Devil’s Jukebox
He ain’t got no country, he ain’t got no soul,
he don’t give a goddamn for white boy rock and roll.
He ain’t got no bluegrass, he ain’t got no jazz,
he don’t want what every other badass has.
He ain’t got no crooners, no songs of sweet regret,
he don’t care for nothing unless they’re working up a sweat.
It’s the devil’s jukebox, boy can that cat play!
It’s the devil’s jukebox, got to hear him again someday.
It’s the devil’s jukebox, boy can that cat sing!
It’s the devil’s jukebox, gotta drop another nickel in.
I’ve been hearing voices
I’ve been hearing voices. Please allow me to explain
They introduced themselves to me, so I know them all by name
They rarely speak all at once, so they don’t bother me
It's good to talk to someone and they keep me company
I guess my brain is not the same as an average guy,
it’s open to just anyone who feels like dropping by
There’s all sorts and they come and go as freely as they please,
I don’t know how they all fit in, it must be quite a squeeze.
There’s lonely little Mary Jane who comes by when she can,
a troubled soul who needs to know that someone understands.
Drusilla she has issues and needs a sympathetic ear,
I try to help, I really do and trust I sound sincere.
Then there’s Mrs Willingham who pops in for a chat
She’s all aglow with who she knows and who did this and that.
We pass the time of day this way in idle conversation
until we’re incandescent with moral indignation.
There’s just one voice I've not heard before and that’s what vexes me
it gets me all worked up you see and will not let me be.
It speaks like Jove to Abraham with talk of ‘thee’ and ‘thine’,
but what troubles me the most is I fear it may be mine
Zanti Misfits
We are not this way by chance (“oh no”) nature did not make us so.
Ugly is as ugly does, I (“it’s true") when you’ve eight legs ‘stead of two.
Are we not men, are we not men?
If our appearance makes you gag (“too bad”) It’s  the only one we have.
We have been condamned to die (“Oh my!”) before we could multiply.
You’d be surprised where we can hide (“and crawl”).
You can’t stomp and squash us all
Bitter and Twisted
A wiser man than me once said, “boy if you can keep your head
when all around are losing theirs and life is more than you can bear,
you will be a man my son,” but that ain‘t no way to get things done.
See, l don’t hold with all that Zen, I don’t consider every man my friend.
I’ts just the way I’m built I guess, It’s not a trait that I possess.
I tried and it didn’t work for me. I guess I’m kinda ornery
I’m too wired to take it slow, to mellow out and let things go
I see no need to apologize for being contrary-wise.
The kind to gripe and kick and cuss and stir up al kind of fuss.
l’ll give straight. I’m kinda blunt. I’ll tell you if that dog don’t hunt.
If your girl looks plain to me. If she fell out the ugly tree and if your smarts were hand-me-down or you got your smile on upside down. I gotta call a spade a spade. I just can’t help the way I’m
made. Son, I don‘t mean to give offence but is you dumb or is you dense?
You look ‘bout fit to be tied if the Good Lord's willing and the creek don’t rise.
Me, l’m just a bump on a log, chawing tobacco ‘n' kicking my dawg.
Now don’t go pitching a hissy fit, or I’ll have to fetch you on out of it,
'cause no man ever made me scoot. I guess I’m what you’d call a hoot.”
Another me
If what I hear is to be believed it seems there is another me.
I can’t believe the things he’s done. He’s twice the man I have become.
He’s had himself a high old time, not at all a life like mine.
He has run up frightful debts for things I haven’t enjoyed yet.
It staggers me they think he’s swell and care not he’s a ne’er-do-well.
I must admit it gives me a thrill to think they think i fit the bill.
The spitting image I’ve been told just one more ‘fore they broke the mould.
A doppleganger, a double, twin who’s to blame for the mess I’m in.
I suffer from a condition with a lengthy Latin name.
It can be inconvenient but its advantages are plain.
It comes on all a sudden like and my whole world goes black
and it may appear that l’m not coming back.
Though my heart has ceased to beat and my eyes are closed
and my pulse is barely felt, I’m only in repose.
When the doctor says “he’s fading fast and will not last the night",
don’t believe a word of it, I’m really quite alright.
I’ll be up and about in a tick or two, so don’t nail down that coffin lid,
if you know what is good for you.
Cause if I pop up sudden-like you might just get a fright.
And drop dead at the spot and that would serve you right.
I may be cold and out to lunch, as the saving goes
and rigor has me rigid from my fingers to my toes.
But don’t be fooled if signs of life seem to be extinct,
the doctor knows how to bring this stiff back from the brink.
So don’t you rush to write me off ‘fore the reading of my will
Don’t write my obituary there’ s life in me still
No flowers for my funeral, don’t wear your mourning black.
You’ve not seen the last of me. Believe me, I’ll be back.
William Bunny’s Trigger Fingernail
There’s a new attraction over at general store
I swear that I have never seen it’s like before.
Some folks they worship relics and swear that they can cure
am but this here’s a wonderment for sure.
William Bonny’s trigger finger floating in a jar
You can see it for a nickle, fat as a cigar.
They say that he won’t need it now, not where he is bound
for slaying fourteen strangers who lie six feet in the ground.
Billy the Kid, the outlaw. You can run, but you can’t hide when there’s a-gnawing inside.
It sits behind the counter ‘tween the candy canes and beans.
I hear the ladies of the town consider it obscene.
But round hereabouts it’s drawing folks like flies,
‘cause we don’t give a good god damn if it ain’t dignified.
I hear they dressed his body up all in his Sunday best.
Laid out on a tail board, arms across his chest.
Petrified for a picture, the kind that some folks frame.
‘The Fate of William Bonny - the boy they couldn’t tame.’