"He Used To Cut The Grass"

[Act III]
[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 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 theres no musicians anymore
They're all gone
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I'll be sullen and withdrawn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 through the world which by then has been totally epoxied over,
carefully organized, 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 irreparable appliances their
parents had purchased on the 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.
The White Zone is for loading or unloading only.
If you gotta load or unload, go to the White Zone.
You'll love it.
Its a way of life.
As JOE stumbles over mounds of dead consumer goods formed into abstract statues
ded-icated 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:
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 in not joking around anymore!
You'll see now!
There they are... they're coining!
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...
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. Hes 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...
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