Category Archives: Lyrics

In Case You’d Forgotten

Back in the Western USA

In 1800 somethin’

A couple cowboys realized

Their hearts, they were a thumpin’.

The cowboys had been life long friends

And though they both were male

They rode to Brokeback Mountain

And they gave up on the trail.

Yodel-oodle-yodel-adle-yodel-addle-ee!

Yodel-oodle-yodel-adle-odel-sodomy!

We used to have some cowboys

To protect our town from raids,

But now we have to check

Our cowboy guardians for AIDS!

They use to be quick to the draw

But now they have more fun

With the sheathing than the drawing

Of their aforementioned gun!

Yodel-oodle-yodel-adle-yodel-addle-ee!

Yodel-oodle-yodel-adle-odel-sodomy!

One cowboy found his saddle’s

Grown less comfortable with time. He

Found this was the case

Unless their romance they would stymie.

But the cowboys needed horses

Like they found they needed lasses

And they replaced their ponies

With one another’s (whoaaa!)

Yodel-oodle-yodel-adle-yodel-addle-ee!

Yodel-oodle-yodel-adle-odel-sodomy!

Yodel

Oodle

Yodel

Adel

Odel

Soooooooo…

Doooooooo…

Myyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!

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You Didn’t Eat Your Broccoli, Thus…

Satan wants to eat your soul for breakfast.

Yeah, that’s a thing that Satan wants to do.

His mouth’s already watering

At the prospect of slaughtering

That tasty human spirit that is you!

Satan wants to eat your soul for breakfast.

I heard him to his Mrs. Satan say

“Hey, why don’t you and me go

“Have some eggs and Human Ego

“As a nutritious snack to start the day!”

Satan has a hunch

That it’s too soon for lunch

And, by that logic, also too soon for dinner.

But they don’t sleep-in in Hell

And to start his day off well

You are the perfect portion size of sinner!

(Everybody)!

Satan wants to eat your soul for breakfast.

He wants to fill his belly with your Id.

I hope you’ve read your Dante

‘Cause you’re what Satan wants. Hey!

That’s what you get for being a naughty kid!

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One More Time (Anatomy Of Pop)

I met you, romantic prospect,

At a facility frequented by listeners of this genre.

It was unrealistically perfect

To look upon ya.

Then I sang about nothing!

Then I sang the same nothing!

Then the same nothing again

One more time!

I mentioned your physical appearance

But also a personal detail

To convince listeners of this genre

That you, romantic prospect, are real.

Then I sang about nothing!

Then the exact same nothing!

Then a slightly lengthened version of the same nothing

(With backup singers)

One more time!

Then I sang again about nothing!

(Because choruses, yo)

Then again about nothing!

(Because choruses bro)

One more time about nothing!

(Yay radio…)

One more time!

Fade and repeat ad infinitum…

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The Placelandian National Anthem

Placelandia! We celebrate

The nation that is not a state,

The place where politicians come to die!

Where residents have common sense

And our plan for national defense

Is not to be a dick to folks nearby.

Placelandia! We celebrate

Our lack (so far) of Watergate

Or other nasty scandals of that kind.

Where citizens think differently

And something backs our currency;

A country built with happiness in mind.

Placelandia! Placelandia!

A nation that can safely be ignored.

Placelandia! Placelandia!

Where drama-seeking tourists will be bored.

Placelandia! We celebrate

That here nice guys can get a date

And nobody is told they must comply.

Where everybody owns a Glock

And Fox exec Rupert Murdoch

Would not have had to cancel Firefly.

Placelandia! We celebrate

A place mostly devoid of hate,

Where legs just shave themselves if given time.

We hope you have enjoyed this song

And pop stars didn’t sing too long

Before the very easy ending rhyme.

Placelandia! Placelandia!

It’s a pretty snazzy kinda joint.

Placelandia! Placelandia!

Okay, okay, okay! We get the point!

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I Tried To Write A Blues Song…

If the fact that night’s black

Somehow strikes you as racist,

If you’ve slacked off on the lotion

And your skin has a cray cyst,

If you drink green smoothies

And fly “coexist” kites

You may not have the blues

But you’ve sure got the whites.

When your three-year-old son

Tells you “Daddy, I’m gay”

And your instagram buddies

Say “Hashtag-OMG-yay!”

If you’re upset you don’t need

To fight for your rights

Then I’m sorry my friend

But you may have the whites.

If Samuel L. Jackson’s

Your “number one bro,”

You think its fine to say “moron”

But not to call someone “slow,”

If you think the dragon’s

Misunderstood by the knights

Then give your friends sunglasses

‘Cause you’ve got the whites.

But if you’ve got the whites

There’s no need to be sad.

It’s not your fault your existence

Makes everything bad.

One day we won’t judge people

Based on sex, race, or fat…

If only all the fat rich white males

Could understand that!

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Aria for Happy Fools and Background Noise

Our lives are like a song

In a language we don’t know.

Our feet tap to the beat of the world

When we feel that special flow.

It starts out as a whisper

And builds into the cry

Of a baby with the will to sing

But no knowledge how or why.

It may turn many corners.

It changes every verse.

The song always gets better

Even if it may sound worse.

Some songs will stop too suddenly

And some go on too long.

Since we don’t know what we’re singing

Why care if something’s wrong?

You can sing however’s comfortable.

When all is said and sung

I hope I’m singing nonsense

‘Til I get my iron lung!

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She’s Got Legs!

I see a little spider

Crawling up my leg.

A part of me is screaming!

It wants to plead and beg,

But as the beast gets closer

My mind begins to clear

And I realize that, in this spider,

I have nothing to fear.

And so I watch her scuttle

From my ankle to my knee.

My two green eyes watch her

And her eight black eyes watch me,

And as our eyes make contact

I feel our spirits join.

The spider and I are friends now

As she crawls over my groin.

The spider meets my pelvis.

She passes o’er my hips.

Where once they brought me horror

Her eyes could now sink ships.

Her silky brunette body

Tempts me towards an unnamed sin

And I find myself attracted

To a patch that looks like a violin.

The spider now is crawling

Onto my left pectoral

And my mind’s engaged in matters

Of arrangements marital and floral.

She crawls onto my neck now,

Her gorgeous eyes the size of fleas.

She’s nearly to my head now

And I’m nearly on my knees.

She crawls onto my soul patch

And one of her footies slips.

I catch it and replace it

And she crawls onto my lips.

A kiss! A kiss! How lovely

As her mandibles meet mine.

I slip off into a restful sleep

As on me she starts to dine.

I don’t wake up that evening,

Nor tomorrow, nor the next,

Yet dead and cold as I may be

I do not feel vexed.

So when you see such spiders

In their web or in their lair

Instead of giving them the Kleenex

Try to show them that you care.

For though you’ll never meet them

On account of being desiccated

Your eyes will fill with baby spiders

To which you just might be related.

The babies ask “where’s daddy?”

And mommy spider’ll have a chat

And then they’ll go find  love like us.

What’s more beautiful than that?

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