Song parody of
Corrina Pt. 1: Trapped in the Wreckage
by Pearl Diver
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She struck me as bitter-sweet sitting cross-legged outside the 7/11
By an old Bratwurst wagon at the wrong end of a nondescript New York City street
Smelling of onions and pickle and last month's lipstick
Said she'd come down with the rain from the black hills
She struck me as kinda neat in that cruciform pose
Halfway between hell and heaven
Someplace halfway from a jeroboam and a hooch flagon
With broken sandals on dirty feet
She saw me as a cruiser
Thought I was a possible trick
Who was also washed down with the rain
Only I was from Nebraska
Other that that we were kinda the same
And I asked her if she was available for a light lunch?
Oh Corrina, those songs of love and hate inscribed in your blue tattoos
The shoulders twitch, the junkie itch, are handing me out the clues
Somehow the strains of the NYPD choir trying to sing up Fisherman's Blues
Seemed to hang over the onion and pickle, condensing in the boil of Bratwurst
And sizzle of the pork fat. I thought "That's that"
"Corrina, let's go be fishermen, let's cast out the line, set the course
There's gotta be some kinda fisherman somewhere in Fisherman's Wharf"
Oh Corrina, those songs of love and hate enmeshed in your blue tattoos
The shoulders twitch, the junkie itch, are handing out the clues
She struck me as bitter-sweet sitting cross-legged outside the 7/11
By an old Bratwurst wagon at the wrong end of a nondescript New York City street
Smelling of onions and pickle and last month's lipstick
Said she'd come down with the rain from the black hills
She struck me as kinda neat in that cruciform pose
Halfway between hell and heaven
Someplace halfway from a jeroboam and a hooch flagon
With broken sandals on dirty feet
She saw me as a cruiser
Thought I was a possible trick
Who was also washed down with the rain
Only I was from Nebraska
Other that that we were kinda the same
And I asked her if she was available for a light lunch?
Oh Corrina, those songs of love and hate inscribed in your blue tattoos
The shoulders twitch, the junkie itch, are handing me out the clues
Somehow the strains of the NYPD choir trying to sing up Fisherman's Blues
Seemed to hang over the onion and pickle, condensing in the boil of Bratwurst
And sizzle of the pork fat. I thought "That's that"
"Corrina, let's go be fishermen, let's cast out the line, set the course
There's gotta be some kinda fisherman somewhere in Fisherman's Wharf"
Oh Corrina, those songs of love and hate enmeshed in your blue tattoos
The shoulders twitch, the junkie itch, are handing out the clues
