Vyrna Knowl is a Headbanger Releases Lyrics


Robyn Hitchcock


Title Artist Label Type Year
Wading Through a Ventilator The Soft Boys Delorean Record Company Bootleg 1984
Raw Cuts The Soft Boys Overground Records EP 1989


She bangs her bull
She bulls her bat
She bangs her ball and builds her cat she bangs her hand
Against the wall
She bags her hat and slides her fat
She catches handle in her flat

Her man is ripe
In greasy silk
And split tomato in his mind
The crumpled heart
Sags in the sea
Tomato heart escaping gas
She has a light under her skin

Of all the people that I know
The ones I like I love the best
The fishes in the sewer pipes
The highway men in yellow stripes
At least I'm not a coathanger
Vyrna Knowl, you're a headbanger

She tangs her fag
She tends her cyst
She thought he's comin' on her rock she twists her fang
She tugs her foot
She muffles houses in a squat
The hairs on my marshmallow pout

His head is rich
Enough to burst
Fresh air and flies on melon halves with ivies strung
Around her calves
You wind up living somewhere cheap
And die upon a compost heap

Of all the people I don't know
The ones I do I hate the most
The twisted fodder of mankind's
Enough to drive a poor boy blind
At least I'm not a coat hanger
Vyrna Knowl, you're a headbanger, bang!

She bangs it once and that's no lies
She bangs it twice and both her eyes
Come dangle out on yo-yo strings

A headball brunches on a sheath
And Vyrna bubbles on the heath
"My heart is full of soap" she sighs

A tongue of stalk
And tender leaves
Eventually your skull occludes and melon splits
And like an egg
It dribbles down your inside leg
Don't get me wrong, I'm quite ok

She tongues a cat
She tongues a cake
She throws transistors in the lake she throws her head
Far through the door
I wonder what she does that for
I wonder what she thinks I've got

Listen Vyrna, there ain't nothing in here but your own sweet mind (Shut it down shut it down)
If it bothers you, we can turn it off  (Shut it down shut it down)
With your cigarette shoes and your Grecian urn  (Shut it down)
And my feet potted up in a veiled cocoon

Like an overweight butterfly on a thin red scone
A rotting statue on a feathery dawn
Invented you one summer's morn
At least I'm not a coat hanger
Vyrna Knowl, you're a headbanger