Cats with Lasers / The Rebirth of Reynardine

by Blue-John Benjamin And His Amateur Humans

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1.
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2.
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about

Initially conceived as a brief picnic in the lay-by prior to whichever substantial thing awaited us, our plan to release a single quickly expanded somewhat in scope.

credits

released May 7, 2012

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all rights reserved

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about

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Blue-John Benjamin Whitby, UK

"We put the boot in - flew the freak-flag;
We stood resolute like Morrissey’s quiff."

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Track Name: Cats with Lasers
Cats with Lasers

Precision cloc-kwor-k, slapstic-k Stan & Ollie:
a pair of oddities—a telepathic double act.

Let’s interface—switch from silent cinema.
Let’s break the fourth wall—take up the gauntlet.

Could it be she’s my Brigitte Bardot—
my muse, the spark for a smoke-infused utterance?

A call to arms, Children of the Underworld:
swirling closer, a cloud of poison ink.

Chilled to the bone,
kids in blazers;
looks that kill;
cats, cats,

cats with lasers—
lasers for eyes;
their interstellar steamship
blackens the skies.

Cats with lasers—
a glancing blow.
We are freaks of nature:
they’re the mew-tant foe.

We put the boot in—flew the freak-flag.
We stood resolute like Morrissey’s quiff.

Let’s interface—plunder science fiction.
Let’s flick the V-sign with conviction.

Could it be she’s my comic-strip Barbarella—
sensuous lips and thought clouds melding?

A call to arms, Children of the Far North:
with collars up, let’s kick them back to Hell.

Chilled to the bone,
kids in blazers;
looks that kill;
cats, cats,

cats with lasers—
lasers for eyes;
their interstellar steamship
blackens the skies.

Cats with lasers—
a glancing blow.
We are freaks of nature:
they’re the mew-tant foe.
Track Name: The Rebirth of Reynardine
The Rebirth of Reynardine

No snare will pin me down, but there are those who tried;
they floundered behind me, blown off the mountainside.
At dusk, a bareback rider bestrides a flighty mare;
The summer’s on her lips, and the woodland’s in her hair.

The woodland’s in her hair, the woodland’s in her hair;
the summer’s on her lips, and the woodland’s in her hair.

Her lurcher tracks my scent; her skittish mount rears back;
the blackbird’s call betrays me. “Take off your mask,” she says.
There’s something of the gypsy about that girl, I swear:
the taste of her body; the eloquence of her stare.

The eloquence of her stare, the eloquence of her stare,
the taste of her body, the eloquence of her stare.

When she and I were fox cubs in a tumbling tug-of-war,
ancient oaks inhaled our laughter, and we their gentle sighs.
I want to drink the sunrise in—to feel her breath
once more against my skin—for Heaven
is the dawn reflected in her eyes.

No song will pin me down, but there are those who tried:
balladeers and minstrels; they call me Reynardine.
My tired yew tree limbs seek the coolness of the earth;
this covert’s her cathedral of renewal and rebirth.

Renewal and rebirth, renewal and rebirth.
This covert’s her cathedral of renewal and rebirth.

The woodland’s in her hair, the woodland’s in her hair;
the summer’s on her lips, and the woodland’s in her hair.

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