I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin' and I'll try
I'm tryin' and I'll try
Imagine if you were Herr Barockter,
Alias and nobleman.
Son of son of sky, and of scion.
Part of his rich inheritance,
Parceled and generous divorce.
Sentence forthwith, being
Certain blocks of land
And living quarters deemed
By all gentlemen
And wives thereof.
To be grossly humane,
And frankly, quite un-dirty.
Herr Barockter,
In his enviable good taste,
Tries quick escape gambit,
Via local periodicals.
But no takers, land an enviable station
In the conduit between two selves.
A veritable no-man's land.
Array of the flophouse, cardboard materials,
And carbon-monoxide wallpaper.
All his brig-deck Torino boys ask
Is irrelevant...
I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin' and I'll try.
I'm tryin' and I'll try.
Unable to bear the scandal, Ray, philanthropist,
Rents low-down scab house in conduit.
Herr Barockter offers said land for a song,
But no one wants to sing.
In an attempt to retain social privileges,
Yet mask it as goodwill,
He says to the conduit members:
"Take this rotten old tree and make it bear fruit."
Cheers erupted throughout the thin settlement;
An Italian male was heard to say:
"Between here and there
Is better than either here or there!"
I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin'.
I'm tryin' and I'll try.
I'm tryin' and I'll try.
I'm tryin' and I'll try.
