El Passoff

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This is a parody of Marty Robbin's 1959 hit song El Paso. I conceived it in 1980 when I was working as a janitor at the Kingpin Lanes bowling alley on Sepulveda Boulevard in West Los Angeles. My supervisor would play a country and western radio station over the PA system as we cleaned up after hours and I heard El Paso at least once a night. When the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan I came up with this parody in response.


Is being old Russian folk song; is being written by old Russian folk singer, Martin Robbinskiy; is going like this:

Down in the south Russian town of El Passoff

    I fell in love with an Islamic girl.

Lunchtime would find me in Rostov's cantina.

    Music would play and Fatima would whirl.

Bigger than bombs were the fists of Fatima,

    wicked and evil while throwing a punch.

My love was strong for this Islamic maiden,

    like the Limburger soup I was having for lunch.


One day an earnest young comrade came in,

pushing the new Party li-i-i-i-ine.

Earnest and caring, his thoughts he was sharing

with wicked Fatima, the girl that I loved,

        so in anger...

I challenged his right for the mind of this maiden.

    Down went his hand for the gas mask he wore.

My challenge was answered in less than a heartbeat.

    The earnest young comrade passed out on the floor.

Just for a moment I stood there in silence,

    shocked by the reactionary deed I had done.

Soon other comrades would come to assist him.

    I had but one chance and that was to run.

Out through the back door of Rostov's I ran,

out where the tractors were pa-a-a-a-arked.

I found a good one. It looked like it might run,

so up on the seat and away I did drive

        just as fast as...

I could from the south Russian town of El Passoff,

    out to the badlands of Afghanistan.

Rather than face a life term in the gulag,

    I'll stay away just as long as I can.

Down in the tool box I find a full bottle.

    Full of self-pity I drain it at once.

Now I want more, so I head back to Rostov's.

    My clever scheme is the plan of a dunce.

Full of myself, I sing to the wind,

driving alone in the da-a-a-a-ark.

Maybe tomorrow the comrades will find me.

Tonight only booze has a place in my mind.

        And at last...

Here I am on hill overlooking El Passoff.

    I can see Rostov's cantina below.

Stupidly thinking Fatima will help me,

    down off the hill to the city I go.

Off to my right I see five angry comrades.

    Off to my left are a dozen or more.

Weaving and swaying, I can't let them catch me.

    I have to make it to Rostov's back door.

Something is dreadfully wrong, for I feel

a deep, throbbing pain in my hea-ea-ea-ea-ead.

Though I am trying to stay on the tractor,

I'm getting dizzy, unable to drive,

        and I barf as...

I see the big comrade speak into the bullhorn.

    I feel his words stabbing deep in my brain.

Crashing the tractor, I fall to the pavement.

    My body's filled with sensations of pain.

From out of nowhere Fatima has found me,

    punching my face as she straddles my thigh.

Pummeled by two massive fists that I'll die from,

    one roundhouse punch and, Fatima, good-bye.


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