Lyrics Language: English Song writer/composer(s): Kurt D Cobain, William S Burroughs
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NirvanaPriest They Called Him Lyrics:
"Fight tuberculosis, folks." Christmas Eve, an old
junkie selling Christmas seals on North Park
Street. The "Priest," they called him. "Fight
tuberculosis, folks." People hurried by, gray
shadows on a distant wall. It was getting late and
no money to score. He turned into a side street
and the lake wind hit him like a knife. Cab stop
just ahead under a streetlight. Boy got out with a
suitcase. Thin kid in prep school clothes,
familiar face, the Priest told himself, watching
from the doorway. "Remindsme of something a long
time ago." The boy, there, with his overcoat
unbuttoned, reaching into his pants pocket for the
cab fare. The cab drove away and turned the
corner. The boy went inside a building. "Hmm, yes,
maybe" - the suitcase was there in the doorway.
The boy nowhere in sight. Gone to get the keys,
most likely, have to move fast. He picked up the
suitcase and started for the corner. Made it.
Glanced down at the case. It didn't look like the
case the boy had, or any boy would have. The
Priest couldn't put his finger on what was so old
about the case. Old and dirty, poor quality
leather, and heavy. Better see what's inside. He
turned into Lincoln Park, found an empty place and
opened the case. Two severed human legs that
belonged to a young man with dark skin. Shiny
black leg hairs glittered in the dim streetlight.
The legs had been forced into the case and he had
to use his knee on the back of the case to shove
them out. "Legs, yet," he said, and walked quickly
away with the case. Might bring a few dollars to
score. The buyer sniffed suspiciously. "Kind of a
funny smell about it." "It's just Mexican
leather." "Well, some joker didn't cure it." The
buyer looked at the case with cold disfavor. "Not
even right sure he killed it, whatever it is.
Three is the best I can do and it hurts. But since
this is Christmas and you're the Priest..." he
slipped three bills under the table into the
Priest's dirty hand. The Priest faded into the
street shadows, seedy and furtive. Three cents
didn't buy a bag, nothing less than a nickel. Say,
remember that old Addie croaker told me not to
come back unless I paid him the three cents I owe
him. Yeah, isn't that a fruit for ya, blow your
stack about three lousy cents. The doctor was not
pleased to see him.
"Now, what do you WANT? I TOLD you!" The Priest
laid three bills on the table. The doctor put the
money in his pocket and started to scream. "I've
had TROUBLES! PEOPLE have been around! I may lose
my LICENSE!" The Priest just sat there, eyes, old
and heavy with years of junk, on the doctor's
face. "I can't write you a prescription." The
doctor jerked open a drawer and slid an ampule
across the table. "That's all I have in the
OFFICE!" The doctor stood up. "Take it and GET
OUT!" he screamed, hysterical. The Priest's
expression did not change.
The doctor added in quieter tones, "After all, I'm
a professional man, and I shouldn't be bothered by
people like you." "Is that all you have for me?
One lousy quarter G? Couldn't you lend me a
nickel...?" "Get out, get out, I'll call the
police I tell you." "All right, doctor, I'm
going." Of course it was cold and far to walk,
rooming house, a shabby street, room on the top
floor. "These stairs," coughed the Priest there,
pulling himself up along the bannister. He went
into the bathroom, yellow wall panels, toilet
dripping, and got his works from under the
washbasin. Wrapped in brown paper, back to his
room, get every drop in the dropper.
He rolled up his sleeve. Then he heard a groan
from next door, room eighteen. The Mexican kid
lived there, the Priest had passed him on the
stairs and saw the kid was hooked, but he never
spoke, because he didn't want any juvenile
connections, bad news in any language. The Priest
had had enough bad news in his life. He heard the
groan again, a groan he could feel, no mistaking
that groan and what it meant. "Maybe he had an
accident or something. In any case, I can't enjoy
my priestly medications with that sound coming
through the wall." Thin walls you understand. The
Priest put down his dropper, cold hall, and
knocked on the door of room eighteen. "Quien es?"
"It's the Preist, kid, I live next door." He could
hear someone hobbling across the floor.
A bolt slid. The boy stood there in his underwear
shorts, eyes black with pain. He started to fall.
The Priest helped him over to the bed. "What's
wrong, son?" "It's my legs, senor, cramps, and now
I am without medicine." The Priest could see the
cramps, like knots of wood there in the young
legs, dark shiny black leg hairs. "A few years ago
I damaged myself in a bicycle race, it was then
that the cramps started." And now he has the leg
cramps back with compound junk interest. The old
Priest stood there, feeling the boy groan. He
inclined his head as if in prayer, went back and
got his dropper. "It's just a quarter G, kid." "I
do not require much, senor."
The boy was sleeping when the Priest left room
eighteen. He went back to his room and sat down on
the bed. Then it hit him like heavy silent snow.
All the gray junk yesterdays. He sat there
received the immaculate fix. And since he was
himself a priest, there was no need to call one.
Lyrics: Priest They Called Him, Nirvana [end]
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