One night two months ago a 29-year-old lyricist named Bob Hilliard asked Carl Sigman, who sets his words to music, how he would like to write a song about civilization. "Just like that," said Sigman, "it killed me."
"In two nights, they thought up everything they didn't like about Manhattan, and set their catalogue (streetcars, landlords, bright lights, door bells) into a chant. The chorus:
Bongo, bongo, bongo
I don't want to leave the Congo
Oh, no, no, no, no, no.
Bingle, bangle, bungle I'm so happy in the jungle
I refuse to go. . . .*
By last week, eight record versions of this jangling jingle had...
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