Nhoj Morley



Includes madness, a Sergei satire, the title tune, an angry phone call, and a man on a horse

Nhojolai Rimsky-Morleykof


A comfy album-side stretch of musically-related songs... A saloon scene, a Scheherazade satire, The Alboobro with a bonus podcast & the Albuttro.



All four movements of the pseudo-symphony, The Boy King at the Battle of Dickland.



Now begins with my best John Cassini imitation.



Field recording courtesy of LadyJane.

All these synthetic sounds are intended to evoke real and familiar instruments. This was easy to envision as a stage production. The opening opens with the in-house theatre organ in the pit. After some malarkey on a drop down screen, a power trio is joined by an accordion, an English horn and a soprano sax for a playful rendition of 'Down in Baghdad'. Then a small marching band of horn players circle around while each in turn comes center to drill a stupid melody into your ears. They include trombones, four kinds of saxes and a tuba bass line. Not far into the proceedings, the first of the anima-tronic geese and ducks begin to wander the stage. A few at first, then many. When the thumpy part comes, their movements become synchronized as they march back and forth in formation. As the last section begins and the drums get all Ringo-like, they all take off at once and fly away. Shadows pass across the stage as if the fowl are flying around the lights. As things wind down, the keyboard player is free of Hammond duty and tries to strap on the accordion in time for the final chord. It comes just as a cascade of fowl droppings drop on the players' heads. Blackout. 

Music by Sergei Prokofiev/Lyrics and arrangement by Morley


The original plan said this PRCA had to contain the F-bomb at least one hundred times. This a section of The Scythian Suite done as satire.


I don't give a f*ck,
f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck
I just wanna f*ck
f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck
f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck
f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck
f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck
f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck
f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck
f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck
f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck
f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck
Come dance with the playful wankie boys
They're settin' the house on fire
Watch them breaking all the toys
Very impressive these wankie boys
I said dick
Did you hear me? It is my Testimony
I said dick
Come dance with the playful wankie boys
They're burnin' down the house
Underneath their smoky sky
The wankie boys say it's do or die
F*ck wanna wanna wanna wanna wanna f*ck
wanna wanna wanna wanna wanna wanna wanna f*ck
wanna wanna wanna wanna wanna  f*ck wanna
wanna wanna f*ck wanna wanna wanna wanna wanna
wanna wanna f*ck wanna wanna wanna f*ck
wanna wanna wanna wanna wanna wanna wanna f*ck wanna wanna wanna
wanna wanna f*ck wanna wanna f*ck wanna f*ck
wanna wanna f*ck wanna wanna f*ck wanna f*ck
f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck
f*ck f*ck f*ck
and... f*ck!


The title tune intends to evoke a sense of masculinity... of a posturing muscularity... that and premature ejaculation. With a sweaty repeat and fade.

This is what we use to call a Billion Track Bessie. The others are mere Million Track Miltons.


I'm a beefcake fantasy
in a world that only a boy can see 
We know who knows who can save its day
The wankie boys will show the way
We are the fearsome supermen (or, sperm 'n eu)
and nothing can brake our stride
Come and join our cheesecake revelry
Find a place in the big machinery
Come and reap the harvest of our shared belief
in the ever-righteous everlasting madness of beef
I am so beefy and roasted with fire
that licks and tickles and makes me laugh
Got a head full of steam and blood full of wood
it's so sensational I gotta laugh
It burns and tickles and freezes and hurts
so don't make me laugh
I said stop laughing
We are the fearsome supermen
and no dame can make us cry
Madness is Sensational Sensational
Telling us what to do Sperm 'n eu
Quiet those big-mouthed shirty dames then who can say
Who look right past our view
Buddy we can help you bag a chick
Cuz here there's a place for every dick
come join with us in our shared belief
in the ever-righteous everlasting madness of beef
Of course we are the supermen Sperm 'n eu
above and beyond the rest Nancy boys
don't put da rules to the test don't f*ck with us
cuz we have to live together
Are you a girly-man?
No, I am the bestest boy
Are you a Nancy-boy?
No, I am the bestest boy
Is that a clanging sound?
Yes, as they swing and sway
Does mommy hold them to the ground? 
No, I'm gonna do what the big boys say
Some says those balls will have to die
No, I think my balls can touch the sky
The madness we will never face
The mythos we will clutch in place
Mysteries we will never know
Where the blood will never go
It burns and tickles and freezes and hurts.
but we have to live together
You twist and squeeze til I say ouch
Not a good way to rub my pouch
Don't touch my balls and think I'll cry
I think my balls can touch the sky
It's Sensational!
I am the leg-man…
I am the ass-man…
And I think like a walrus
Coo-coo for cleavage
The madness we will never face
The mythos we will clutch in place
Mysteries we will never know
Where the blood will never go
So the dames must never be
more than what my eyes can see
Did you say boobs?
You said boobs.
Count me in, lads 
Where's my Zamboni girl?
So who's a prissy femmy wimpy girly little nancy boy?
and who's a wimpy prissy femmy faggy little girly-man?
Who's a prissy femmy wimpy girly little nancy boy?
Who's a wimpy prissy femmy faggy little girly-man?
prissy femmy wimpy girly prissy femmy faggy-boy
foamy prickly ghoulish wipey foggy gnarly minivan   
You may praise my trophy wife
Those dames will explore the hidden frontier
Out of the woods where they can see clear
Nipping the shaft
exposing the trick 
and The Prickly Science of the Dick


Overgrown baby music. And a man on a horse.

The original plan was to filter the verse voice like an angry phone call from Trent Reznor. I tired of it quickly. Then I tired of the unfiltered track. Here's the phone call version.



The Khandahar Prince was just a boy
when the wild men rose up to destroy
He saved his face with everyone  
He saved his farce from oblivion
All is owed to this wankie boy
He was the bestest boy there ever will be
The bestest boy Our little wankie man
is the bestest boy of all
Forever and forever
Other little boys are only up to par 
But in everyone of ours is born a little Prince of Khandahar
We must not tame the lads in case the wild men rise again
No need to train him to behave just ask him if he can
Did mommy come to heel quickly when you wailed?
When your little bottom stung and your little patience failed
Was she the angel of Heaven who was larger than your life?
Were you the little Prince of Khandahar who played for her his pipe? 
Soon our prince must marry a selected bag o' bride
that hides a prize so tempting she could take him for ride
Mommy wouldn't taunt you or grant you pity love
or laugh behind your back like she is thinking of
Did your prize come to heel quickly when you wailed?
until her little bottom stung when your little patience failed
Was she the devil from beyond who could end your afterlife?
The Prince of Khandahar would insist she must be nothing but your wife
What a silly man what a f*ck for brains
I should thank my luck so far
To think I could ever be a match
for the Prince of Khandahar
Why this lament?
Why cast this hero and his
tales that tell and toll from
the bottom of your memory
as a downer of a ditty
with a sad little tune?
Why does the story of your life
deserve to be this lament?
Because it is so lamentable
Music by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov / Arrangement by Morley


Man walks into a saloon...

This should be quickly recognizable to symphony music fans as the second section of Scheherazade... also called The Legend of the Kalendar Prince... done as a satire. Or a parody. Yeah, that's it.

Mr. EN appears by full legal permission. You betcha. All rights belong to prog rock. PRCA's do not hear appeals.

Part One: An Ancient Carousel of Angry Horses
Part Two: A Token for Hell's Nickelodeon
Part Three: Rail Hobos of the New Seville
Part Four: Hannibal's Return  
Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov


Part one of The Sea, Sinbad and the Shipwreck at Palmyra.

Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov


Part 2 of The Sea, Sinbad and the Shipwreck at Palmyra.

Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov


Part 3 of The Sea, Sinbad and the Shipwreck at Palmyra.

Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov


Part 4 of The Sea, Sinbad and the Shipwreck at Palmyra.



The Alboobro Movement evokes a boyish excitement with a throbbing that can't be ignored. The name alone makes one want to peek. I mean listen.

Thanks, Mart!




The complete Albuttro Movement with two skits.


Alvin and Alonzo are altogether vicious
While Albert and Alistair are asking Aloisius…
Who is Al Buttro?
And who is a Joe Shmoe?
You're just a schmuck so
you're not Al Buttro
Alfred and Aladdin are always in a schism
While Alec and Alfredo are lacking altruism
I am Al Buttro but not if you are Al Buttro if not then
I am Al Buttro if not then we must know who is Al Buttro
It's always Alabaster who casts allegiance sparsely
While Alexander is alerting Alan albeit harshly
You're not Al Buttro since I am Al Buttro don't tell me
you are Al Buttro if I said I am Al Buttro
We must find him before we drop
Only Al Buttro
Can ever make this stop.


The complete first movement includes The Dickville Waltz, The Wankie Work Song, Trouble at the Mill and Bop Bop Sha-Boom.

An excerpt from the accompanying text…
The workers stuffed the meeting hall that housed the big table where things were worked out. There were not enough chairs for everyone so they set them all aside and stood in a ring around the table. The Grand Moderator hit the small gong and the room went silent. Silent but for the sound of the Boy-King tapping his fingers slowly on the table top.
"Let's raise our voices one by one
Then we can add up what must be done
A civil tongue will keep thing cool
And we can do without a fool"
All agreed to hear each other out. A bottle was duly spun and civil voices were raised one by one…
"Everyday we share our toils
Everyone should share the spoils
Even-Steven all as one
A consensus says what must be done"
"I work hard and beat the game
I should not be paid the same
I will never share the wealth
It's every lad for himself"
"Break it all and start again
I don't care if it's The End
Eat it all and leave a mess
The future is a source of stress"
"Planning is a task for Fate
A strategy will come too late
Resting by the garden gate
I'm sure that everything will be great"
The Boy-King was still tapping a rhythm on the table and he muttered something barely audible over the discussion.
"What was that?"
Voices stilled and ears leaned toward the Boy-King. He turned his palm flat and began smacking on the table.
"I said… bop bop... sha-boom." 
The workers heads tilted in puzzlement.
"What's that? Is it a philosophy?
Or an economic strategy?
A formula that divides the sum?
Some way to know what must be done?"
The Boy-King kept smacking the table and stared out across the room as if staring was an answer. He smacked harder as if it could drown out the confusion that was slowly filling the meeting hall. Some lads began speaking out of turn.
"But what of… "
"I said… bop bop sha-boom!"
"Then how does… "
"Just listen… bop bop sha-boom!"
The talking stopped and ears were turned. Everyone tried to understand what it all meant. The Boy-King closed his fists and began pounding as hard as he could on the table.
"There is no need to understand.
All we need is what's at hand.
A hand that keeps the rhythm going…
a hand that works without any knowing."
A few workers were already tapping along on the big table. One by one, the other workers closed their fists and joined in the rhythm. The hall began to reverberate and the table legs squeaked under the strain.
"Will you step through fire with me?
The fire will show us what must be.
Are we the loudest in the room?
Say it with me… bop bop sha-boom!"
The pounding grew and synchronized until all of Dickville could hear the sound. No one could doubt the way ahead had been found.
"Bop bop sha-boom?"
"Bop bop sha-boom!"


The docile and harmonious life of Dickville is interrupted by a military parade. The returning soldiers proudly march through the village followed by the procession of the dead. Those maimed and killed in battle are carried in carts for burial at home. Impressed and inspired by the spectacle, the BoyKing says his farewells and leaves to join the army.



Includes Travel Prayer, Dancing on Fire & The Creeping Dicks.




While heading off to join the army, the BK's clutch of travel companions share their prayers along way. He listens intently and determines that he will answer them all. He knows he is the only one who can. He is the Boy-King after all. He finds a rough crowd at the army camp and introduces himself with some carefully crafted song and dance. This is met with some derision and demands that this newbie assume latrine duty like every other dick.


Not to be daunted, the BK starts his song again while the soldiers poke at him with torches and spears. He is warned again to take his place with no effect. The BK is dancing over the torches thrown under him. The soldiers are backing the BK into the camp's big bonfire. Due to an earlier twist in the plot, the BK is momentarily inflammable. There is a glorious whoosh of fire but the BK steps out unharmed. All the flames took was the Shirley Temple-like golden curls of his hair leaving a clean crew-cut of bright crimson. Amazed by the sight, the soldiers fall in step around him as the BK teaches them how to march on fire to a new song with his themes.


BK and his army enjoy their revelry well into the night. Meanwhile, their rivals for the rule of all of Dickland were using the cover of darkness to take positions for a morning attack.




Tis The Battle of Dickland at last. It's first light and BK's forces stand ready to face the approaching enemy dicks.

Music that is designed to tell an unfolding story is an engaging challenge. The story informs the music and improv re-informs the story… but there is an unwavering set of events to follow in their sequence and proportion. Someone steps on a cat.




He's a testifier. With a teste fire.


Pounding like thunder from behind the locker door

She is up against the wall while sprawled across the floor

She hangs like dangling fruit and is always on my mind

It's a full frontal attack or I'm taken from behind  

She changes her form in an endless lunar cycle

A full moon shines when the devil's hands are idle


All the days of June haunt clear through September

Some months will always always be remembered

She's a tack-hanging predator and no one's toy

only posing as docile and coy… but no


Remember what you've been shown

She'll wait til you're alone

then she'll turn your blood to bone!


She's got us lads surrounded popping out from every wall

She is draped across the hood and sneaking in the stall

Some keep her at their peril and face a holy dread

If she were found in the closet or hidden under the bed  

I like to keep her whereabouts always in plain sight

If I have to hold a vigil all throughout the night


Images of April linger all the way through May

maybe take on the whole year in a single day

I shall have my way and she shall have my will

Is it so she can chalk up one more kill? Cuz I'm beat…


She's the huntress of the wankie lads

stalking all the bachelor pads

Or anyone whose got the nads!



You can walk away

turn your back and say

She is safely tucked away

but she's on the loose and you're the prey


Huntress of the wankie lads

Stalking all the bachelor pads


She will wait til you're alone

Then she'll turn your blood to bone


blood to bone! blood to bone!

good to wood! good to wood!


You might think you're the prize

underneath your cozy sheet

In her unblinking eyes

you're just a piece of meat


piece of meat! piece of meat!

blood to bone! blood to bone!


She will squeak softly and

carry your stick in hand

You'll confess you've been good 

then she'll turn your blood to wood

Figures once you've been shown

You'll be her helpless drone

This is the crime that pays

We'll give her thirty days 


I feel I've been robbed

No authorities to turn to

I could call the boys in blue

but they might say me too

She'll never face a redress

Or challenge in the free press

Twelve aliases to hide in 

I may as well stop cryin'

Yet never will I confess

That I left a wee mess… 


yes we left a wee mess

on the calendar princess

yes we left a wee mess

on the calendar princess




Some days, these synthesized orchestra instruments sound pretty good. Other days they are just an electric buzzing sound. This buzz is identified as a Soprano Sax. It helps the illusion to read the names. Other buzzes used on this PRCA are labeled English Horn, Tuba, Bassoon, also baritone, tenor and alto saxaphones.



The cast of buzz sounds in order of appearance: Accordion, English Horn, Clarinet, Strings, Bassoon, Harp, Honky Tonk Piano, Tuba, Theatre Organ, Trombones, and Piccolo.


The world is a mess down in Baghdad

and we know why down in Baghdad

Those wankie boys here in Baghdad

follow the smoky sky to downtown Baghdad

The world is a mess and we know why

those playful wankie lads who smoke the sky

They kissed the girls and made them cry

No pity for those boys who'll have to die down in Baghdad

Right here in Baghdad


We f*cked em 'up down in Baghdad

Then we bagged them up down in Baghdad

We f*cked 'em real good here in Baghdad

pity the boys will have to die down in Baghdad

Right here in Baghdad

Down in Baghdad

Right here in Baghdad



It's only the soundtrack.


If you're a dick then come and play where madness is the only way... in Dickland

Here we're quenching every thirst just as long as dicks come first... in Dickland

Come and join our boyhood dream some dames will liven up the scene and damn us all... to Dickland

Until the shit hits the fan come and smoke' em while you can... in Dickland

Those maniacs who blew it up are back in town so give it up for Dickland

Bop bop sha-boom... Dickland