Frank Zappa - He Used To Cut The Grass

JOE:
(To himself as he walks out of prison)

I'm out at last
Boy, the world sure looks different
Wow . . . there's hardly anything fun left to do
Since they made music illegal
But I'm hooked
I got the habit
I got to have it
I need to play
But there's no musicians anymore
They're all gone
Wait! I've got it!
I'll be sullen and withdrawn
I'll dwindle off into the twilight realm
Of my own secret thoughts
I'll walk through the parking lot
In a semi-catatonic state
And dream of guitar notes
To go with the loading zone announcements

JOE wanders though the world which by then has been totally epoxied over,
carefully organised, with everyone reporting daily to his or her appointed
place in a line somewhere in front of a window somewhere in a building
somewhere in order to collect his or her welfare check, which when cashed,
made it possible for the young ones to continue the payments for the
obsolete and irreperable appliances their parents had purchased on an
installment plan years ago, providing as security the future incomes of
their children. The rest of these checks were used by the young recipients
to buy fun things of their own on credit, most of which broke down or
failed within moments of purchase and seemed to be stacking up everywhere.

CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:

The WHITE ZONE is for loading and unloading only
If you gotta load or unload, go to the WHITE ZONE
You'll love it
It's a way of life

As JOE stumbles over mounds of dead consumer goods formed into abstract
statues dedicated to the Quality of American Craftsmanship, dreaming his
stupid little guitar notes, he hears somewhere in the back of his head, the
voice of MRS. BORG, taunting him:

MRS. BORG

Turn it down!
Turn it down!
I have children sleeping here!
Don't you boys know any nice songs?
I'm calling the police!
I did it!
They'll be here . . . shortly!
I'm not jokin around anymore!
You'll see now!
There they are . . . they're coming!
Just listen to that mess, would you!
Every day this goes on around here!
He used to cut my grass . . .
He was a very nice boy . . .
He used to cut my grass . . .
He was a very nice boy . . .
He used to cut my grass . . .
He was a very nice boy . . .
He used to cut my grass . . .
He was a very nice boy . . .

CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:

This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . . Yes . . . he used to be a nice
boy . . . he used to cut the grass . . . But now his mind is totally
destroyed by music. He's so crazy now he even believes that people are
writing articles and reviews about his imaginary guitar notes, and so,
continuing to dwindle in the twilight realm of his own secret thoughts, he
not only dreams imaginary guitar notes, but, to make matters worse, he
dreams imaginary vocal parts to a song about the imaginary journalistic
profession . . .