Curt's body swayed with the guitar riffs and he stamped his feet with the falling drum beats.
Sell the kids for food
Weather changes moods
Spring is here again
Reproductive glands, he ripped his shirt off.
The people cheered and whistled.
Hey, he stretched the note with his wonderfully gravelly voice.
He's the one
Who likes, all our pretty songs
And he, likes to sing along, he curled his lips in an "o."
And he, likes to shoot his gun
But he, don't know what it means
Don't know what it means
And I say
He's the one
Who likes, all our pretty songs
And he, likes to sing along
And he, likes to shoot his gun
But he, don't know what it means
Don't know what it means
And I say, yeah
He took the microphone in his left hand. With his right hand, he separated the stand from it and slid it between his legs.
We can have some more
Nature is a whore
Bruises on the fruit
Tender age in bloom
Hey
He's the one
Who likes, all our pretty songs
And he, he slid the stand down.
likes to sing along
And he, he slid it up.
likes to shoot his gun
But he, it went down again.
don't know what it means
Don't know what it means
And I say
He's the one
Who likes, all our pretty songs
And he, likes to sing along
And he, likes to shoot his gun
But he, don't know what it means
Don't know what it means
And I say, yeah
Curt pranced on the stage as the guitarist played his solo. He held out his hand.
A stagehand scurried to give him a tall glass of liquor. He poured some over his hair, his face, and his chest. Then he extended his arm again.
The stagehand brought him a lighter. He took a drink, and holding the lighter before him, clicked it. He drank again, this time forcefully releasing the fluid in the air. Fire ignited as soon as the liquor touched the lighter's little flame.
The audience screamed in delight and he laughed to himself.
Hey
He's the one
Who likes, all our pretty songs, he paraded himself among each of his bandmates.
And he, likes to sing along
And he, likes to shoot his gun
But he, don't know what it means, he leaned forward and faced the guitarist, his mouth almost touching the other's face.
Don't know what it means
And I say
He's the one
Who likes, all our pretty songs
And he, likes to sing along
And he, likes to shoot his gun
But he, don't know what it means
Don't know what it means
Don't know what it means
Don't know what it means
Don't know what it means
And I say, yeah
Just before the final drum beats, the doors opened on the other end of the place.
"Who's that?" Curt asked his band.
"What?" the drummer's lips read.
"I said, who the fuck are they?" he yelled, trying to contestthe people's deafening claps and shrieks.
"That must be the news crew." the bassist answered.
"What? Why?"
"This place just opened. You were late, so we didn't have time to tell you that they were coming to check it out and to have a short interview."
"Who in the hell does a fucking interview at, at fucking dawn!"
"That's when they were told that you'd be here."
"Well. That just made my day." he said, somewhat sarcastically. "They know just what Curt Wild wants, and they give it to him. They stick it well up his ass."
"Don't worry." the bassist reassured him. "We'll hold them off if they start getting lippy." he winked.
Curt sighed.
"It's not gonna be like last time." the bassist said, in a more serious tone.
Suddenly, Curt was brought back, to a bar three months ago.
"Has your relationship with Brian Slade ended?" the interviewer asked, his mouth gaping wide.
"I wouldn't say that it ended…." he tried to answer coolly. "It just…stopped."
He shook his head, and he was back on-stage.
"Let's hope."
"Hmm?" the bassist asked.
"Nothin." he said, as he headed for the stairs.
"Wait." his band called out. "We'll go with you."
"No. Stay here and entertain them." He motioned his head to the people. "I don't want them to see how much more fucked up I am."
With that, he continued his descent.
"Oh Curt." the bassist murmured.
Disclaimer: I don't own the song "In Bloom." It belongs to Nirvana.