Mrs. Olmstead: Perhaps you'd care to elaborate. BW: As a little kid in the street I used to hear older kids saying it. It's one of the earliest memories of my life. Older kids playing in the street at night. I'd be on the stoop or watching from a window. Too little to play with the older kids. Summer nights on the street in New York. Very early memory. These kids chanting to each other. Pee-pee-maw-maw. I don't think anybody knew what it meant or where it came from. Probably twelfth century England or the Vikings or the Moors. These kids chanting it on the street. Pee-pee-maw-maw. Pee-pee-maw-maw. Chants like that can be traced to the dawn of civilization. Like games kids play can be traced a thousand years back to kids in India. Same with incantations. It's an interesting subject. You should schedule it.

Mr. Fielder: For my closing remarks, which I promise you will be kept as brief as humanly possible, given the pronounced oratorical bias of your speaker and chairman, I'd like simply to say that this has been a most dynamic round table, surely for me a most instructive one as well, as it was I believe for all of us gathered here, although each no doubt has his or her own idea of levels of merit, remembering our own Turner Bakey and his oft-quoted rejoinder to Ed-dings' paraphrase of Larue during the Arts-Leadership Committee's brunch on genocide. At any rate, thanks one and all. And now for a dip in the pool.

•

Three tracks from

diamond stylus

Recorded on Anspar Records amp; Tapes

International copyright secured

Cold War Lover

I worked her body with a touchLearned from the hand of a bund old manLiving in a one-room duplexIn Nashville's ChinatownIt was love truest loveUnder gunOne by oneShe was the butch of New OrleansI was her sometime beauIn those murderbeds of pimps and tricksAll those ranting nightsWe took what was and left the restAnd mailed the short hairs east to westOh funky city Funky city ohWe loved each other with a heatLearned from the tongue of a strung-out toutSquatting in a two-room toiletIn Tulsa's Upper CrustIt was love animal loveUnder lockRock by rockShe was the butch of New OrleansI was her sometime beauIn those murderbeds of queens and marksSultry afternoonsWe said a prayer and took a hitAnd went to church to nod a bitOh funky cityFunky city ohShe washed my body with a graceLearned from the rub of a burnt-out caseLocked in a padded tubIn the Memphis Steamless BathsIt was love animal loveUnder key Three by threeShe was the butch of New OrleansI was her sometime beauIn those murderbeds of cons and prosAll those summer daysWe reached the end and bent the wickAnd placed an ad for stamps to lickOh funky cityFunky city ohWe broke each other with a skillLearned from the mind of a kindly dikeStuck in an airless shaftIn Harlem's Lonely HeartIt was love truest loveCannibal warMore and moreShe was the butch of New OrleansI was her sometime beauIn those murderbeds of men and wivesFinal quickest tripShe took a gun, a thirty-onePut her tongue to the bluesteel tipOh funky citiesMobile's paper millsI swim in the bayAnd get laid by dayAnd cry for my love all the night Protestant Work Ethic BluesRising up in the morningLooking down at yourself in bedOh rising up in the morningSeeing your pale old body matter-of-factually deadOh blueNever too white to sing the bluesGetting yourself togetherPulling day and night apartOh getting yourself togetherStaring hard at your laminated astrological chartOh blueNever too white to sing the bluesSitting up in your plastic chairSwallowing down some frozen toastOh catching that old broken window trainTake you to the placeThe placeThe placeTake you to the place that you hate the mostOh yeahProtestant work ethic bluesYou got those white collar bluesDropping down behind your deskCrumpled in a puddly heapOh dropping down behind your deskWaiting for the strength to take that existential leapOh blueNever too white to sing the bluesFalling off to sleep and weepIn your three-poster bedOh falling off to deep dark sleepYou find yourself wearing a mask over your original headOh blueNever too white to sing the bluesProtestant work ethic bluesTough to shake those blues

Diamond Stylus

Sounds I seeBreaking through the hard lightRazor notesClose to someone's throatRe-jectIs the mark along the armLong-playIs the enemySongs I touchWheeling through the soft nightTracking forceIs the way I dieIt scratched out lines on my faceTest pressing timeIt pained me so it pained me soDrying out the vinylSound is hard to child-bearSkin inked blackTurning into burning thingCircling into wordtimeWords I tasteDripping through the knife's biteNeedle tracksMarking up the snowRe-volveIs the time I have to liveMa-trixIs the mother-cutNotes I playTwinkling through the bird's flightTracking forceIs the way I dieThey give me five hundred hoursOne thousand sidesNumbering down the broken soundsScratching out a lifeSound is hard to child-bearSkin inked blackTurning into burning thingCircling into wordtimeSounds I seeBreaking through the hard lightRazor notesClose to someone's throatRe-jectIs the mark along the armLong-playIs the enemy