This song’s melancholy tune, co-written by Frieders, Brooks, and drummer Jon Alison, goes from eerie to aggressive with dynamically throat-grabbing guitar work, while the lyrics by Brooks work themselves into an adolescent, homicidal lather.
Matt Alison - Drums / Joel Frieders - Bass, Lead & Rhythm Guitars
CARTMAN: Well, hello. It's all my little friends with all their little dreams.
MR. GARRISON: Eric, where have you been?
CARTMAN: Let's see, where have I been, where have I been?
STAN: Where have you been, Cartman?
CARTMAN: Well, I might have been over at the Cheezy Poof call-back, winning regional championship!
CARTMAN: This is my regional championship certificate. Do you like it? Say, where's your regional championship certificate, Clyde? Oh, you don't have one? Hmmm, do you have a regional certificate, Wendy? No? Apparently, only I do.
KYLE: (Counting off syllables on his fingers) Ass full of pork fat
Jiggles like a jello mold
Mouth is flapping too.
CARTMAN: Your haiku insults have no effect on me, Kyle. I'm regional champion.
STAN: Does that mean you're going to be in that Cheezy Poofs commercial?
CARTMAN: It's between me and four other kids. I'm on my way now with my mom to the finals.
KYLE: I bet you don't win
They don't let big fat asses
Perform on T.V.
MR. GARRISON: Very good haiku, Kyle.
CARTMAN: (Counting off syllables on his fingers) Shut your Goddamn mouth
Or else I'm gonna kick you
Square in the balls . . . asshole ----- Goddammit!"
- Trey Parker & Matt Stone, South Park(1998)
"Your stuffed duck craned toward Harvard from my trunk:
its bill was a black whistle, and its brow
was high and thinner than a baby's thumb; its webs were tough
as toenails on its bough.
It was your first kill; you had rushed it home,
pickled in a tin wastebasket of rum -----
it looked through us, as if it'd died dead drunk.
You must have propped its eyelids with a nail,
and yet it lived with us and met our stare,
Rabelaisian, lubricious, drugged. And there,
perched on my trunk and typing-table,
it cooled our universal
Angst a moment, Delmore. We drank and eyed
the chicken-hearted shadows of the world.
Underseas fellows, nobly mad,
we talked away our friends. 'Let Joyce and Freud,
the Masters of Joy,
be our guests here,' you said. The room was filled
with our cigarette smoke circling the paranoid,
inert gaze of Coleridge, back
from Malta ----- his eyes lost in flesh, lips baked and black.
Your tiger kitten, Oranges,
cartwheeled for joy in a ball of snarls.
'We poets in our youth begin in sadness;
thereof in the end come despondency and madness;' . . ."
- Robert Lowell, "To Delmore Schwartz" (1959)