Artist: Frank Zappa

Title: 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 to do

Since they made

music illegal

But I'm hooked

I got the habit

I've 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withdrawn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 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 

instalment 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:

This is the CENTRAL 

SCRUTINIZER

The White Zone

is for loading and

unloading only.

If you have to load or

unload, go to the

White Zone.

You'll love it.

It's a way of life.

This is the CENTRAL 

SCRUTINIZER

The White Zone

is for loading and

unloading only.

If you have to load or

unload, go to the

White Zone.

You'll love it.

It's a way of life.

This is the CENTRAL 

SCRUTINIZER

The White Zone

is for loading and

unloading only.

If you have to load or

unload... 



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's Voice:

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 joking around

anymore!

You'll see now!

There they are...

they're coming!

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, dreams imaginary 

vocal parts to a song about the imaginary journalistic profession...