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Coronation Hymn

At a certain point I got obsessed with the Jewish American Princess stereotype, which is really sexist, and I don’t think I either then or now really understood what it means, but I referenced it in a few songs, this one being the most obvious. Carolyn Bell, who was the muse of this song, is an incredibly energetic woman who has reinvented herself several times. So this song is a classic illustration of what happens when you get overly invested in one frame of a moving picture. Some of the imagery is based on our mutual love of wildlife. Since I recorded the song I changed one lyric which is reflected below.



Coronation Hymn

Now that you’re here let us pray

The man with the elephant gun has his fun

In the sun of the tropics, myopically searching

For kob and okapi and he just won’t stop he

Awaits bigger game anyway

Now that you’re near him you know why you fear him

Perhaps it’s because of the way that he stalks you

Perhaps it’s because he’s the one you can’t talk to

Eternally set in his ways

See how his vanity upsets your sanity

Now that you’re here let us pray

Now that you’re here let us pray

The woman who’d only make love to a banker

You thank her profusely, she asks you what use she

Can be to your mission, her once proud position

Pathetically crumbles away

Now as you leave her with no tears to grieve her

You sense that she’s part of the dead left behind you

As like some bad omen your mirror reminds you

More of her every day

See how your history dictates your destiny

Now that you’re here let us pray

Now that you’re here let us pray

The boy with his eyes in your hair is aware

Of some aura around you, you’re upset he’s found you

You won’t let him focus upon your neurosis

As if he might take it away

Now that you’ve told him how dearly you hold him

You suddenly discover this once flawless lover

Is oddly familiar and soon you uncover

His elephant gun hid away

Before his sanity upsets your vanity

Now that you’re here let us pray

Now that you’re here let us pray

A girl who has tripped her whole life in glass slippers

Curtsies and blesses your latest excesses

Accepts your caresses, contritely confesses

‘Til soon you are feeling betrayed

Seething with petulance, losing your confidence

Seeking asylum you run to your own room

Forgetting that you’d had it changed to a throne room

When the old king passed away

Try to convince us that you’re not his princess

Long live the queen

Let us pray.