Chel Owens

Spoken:
As we don’t gather
On this day to blather
Let me sweetly remind you
About your place in history

Chant:
You are old
Older than dirt
You are old
Not a little squirt

Sing:
Happy birthday to you
You’re not allowed to boohoo
The virus will leave us
Yippe yay, ha-lle-luuuuuu

Congratulations, Ruth! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

We had terrible subject, terrible singing, and terrible wishes. I felt Ruth’s song encapsulated just the wrong sort of thing one wants to hear on her birthday anniversary, plus a lovely dusting of lazy lyrics for that extra bad poetry effect.

(I also hope she sings it to her hubby, whose birthday is tomorrow!)

If you’re needing a ‘lift’ for your own birthday, may I recommend any of the following:

Happy birthday, as sung by owls

Hootie, hootie, hoot, hoot
Hootie, hootie, hoot, hoot
Hootie, hootie, ‘lil owlet
Hootie, hootie, hoot, hoot.

—–

Toilet humour

Oh, dear, what will we do
We’re singing to you
But you’re not here to hear us
‘Cos you’re locked in the loo.

—–

Farmer’s birthday song

Happy dirt day to you
It’s raining for you
And now there’s some sunshine
Happy dirt day to you.

—–

Untitled piece

by Matt Snyder

Crappy birther day to you
You smell like one [heck] of a giant half submerged and sticking out of the bowl poo
Crappiest born day dear Mr. Mattttttttttttthhhhhhhhhhhheeeeewwwwww
Crappy birther day
to yooooooooooou
and many more pellets falling out your pants leg
now scurry real fast down to the loo

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Healthy birthday to you!
Sequestered birthday to you!
Virus-free birthday dear Chelsea,
(Hope you have enough TP too!)

—–

That Time of Year

by Fishman

Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you,
Have a cake made of frosted honeydew,
Happy Birthday to you.

Your birthday is soon,
(Is your favorite color maroon?)
Enjoy being another year older
Happy Birthday to you.

+ + + + + + + +

Hey, listen up, this is a poem.
So sit down and don’t you roam.
It might be kinda terrible.
But it’s still bearable.
And I’ve only got one.
So it’s not spareable.

So I hope you sat down because I got something to say:
The Terrible Poetry woman is having a birthday.
Is that cool?
Better than a sliced boule?
Tell me, what do you say?
Who doesn’t like birthdays?

I’m guessing that jellyfish don’t like birthdays because they don’t have brains so they wouldn’t even know what a birthday is if they even knew when their birthday was.

So the Terrible Poetry woman needs a present.
But not a pheasant.

(Ants probably don’t like birthdays either because their brains are really small)

Something more pleasant.
Like a flower.
Happy Birthday Terrible Poetry Woman (and to everyone else in the TPW’s house)

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

How many birthdays you have seen
So many decades since you were a teen
Happy Birthday Dear Has Been
Happy Birthday to me, now sod off and pour me a Jim Beam

—–

Hiccup Birthday

by Peregrine Arc

Happy birthday to thee,
Happy birthday to thee,
You’ll feel better in the morning
After a fifth of Jim Beam’s strategic-flask-pouring…

Hiccup! 🥃

—–

Happy Birthday Chelsea

by Susan Zutautas

Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Chelsea, happy birthday to you.

May you live a thousand years

May you drink a thousand beers

Get plastered you b_st_r_

Happy birthday to you.

Thank you all for your artistic genius this week. Tune in tomorrow if you’d like to play again.

I’m still cute.

Ruth: Here’s a badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 3/21 – 3/27/2020

March 21, 2020March 21, 2020Chel Owens 27 Comments

Welcome to the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest! I’m here, you’re here; let’s write some bad poetry while we’re passing the time together…

Close your eyes and imagine what sorts of poetry you wrote when you very first felt the muse to verse. Do cliché terms come to mind? Over-used emotions? Predictable lines of rhyme? Perfect. Encapsulate that, and then read the specifics for this week:

The Topic is birthdays. You all don’t know this, but March and April are our second Christmas around here. Even my birthday is this time of year.
So, as a birthday gift to me, write a horrible parody of the classic song you sing for someone’s birthday.
The Length will depend on the length of the song you honor.
Songs usually rhyme, so I expect your poem will most likely rhyme as well.
It’s my party, so make it terrible ’cause I want you to. You would cry, too, if I sang, “Happy Birthday to you.”
I’ve got children listening! Keep the Rating a G.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (March 27) to submit a poem.

Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week.

If not, and for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. Drop a comment if you try to link back, and it doesn’t show up within a day.

Eat lots of cake, and have fun!

Yep; that’s me. Aren’t I cute?

Photo © Chelsea Owens

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

January 31, 2020February 1, 2020Chel Owens 16 Comments

My profound apologies for the delay. A winner proved moste difficult to choose. That, and the judge proved moste engaged with her offspring.

After much deliberation, we named a champion:

A not exactly “Great” Adventure

by Matt Snyder

We all piled into the van heading into what we felt was the thrill of a lifetime

We headed far and fast and yet arrived dead last to what was an overcrowded parking lot

We huffed and puffed as we ran pushing old broads out of our way

they were fat and full of moth balls with bright blue hair screaming obscenities in our direction. Then this pretty skinny long blonde haired blonde with pools of gorgeous emanating from her eyes

I was entranced and lost my words, I told her I loved her but she was only interested in taking me for a ride…

The ride was full of thrills and spills and I got the chills this was the super duper looper afterall

Sleek and petite and smooth and fast.

It was the greatest of great, great days at great adventure

Honestly though, I never got on. I clucked clucked out.

—–

Congratulations, Matt! You are (once again) the most terrible poet of the week!

Many brave souls attempted this quest; Sir Snyder prevailed in the end. Matt’s poem is exactly the sort I picture when cringing at unintentionally bad poetry: writing a story with just enough poetic feel that it fails, rambling meter that changes often, and random rhyming of very common words. Moste excellent, sir!

Which is not to say traversing the remaining poems is not a dangerous and difficult road. Read, and enjoy, my friends:

The Lay of Sir Fallalot and Rufus

by Trent P. McDonald

‘Twas a tawdry day
When Rufus the Cat went astray
So a knight errant, Sir Fallalot
Was called from 90 miles east of Camelot
In hopes to solve our dismay

I’m sure Fallalot felt itty-bitty
Walking about singing “Here, kitty, kitty”
Through forest, over moor
Traveling from shore to shore
Even visiting every city

Oh, the adventures he had!
Full of ogres and people, good and bad
Deeds to many to count
This lay had too many verses to count!
So I cut most of them, don’t be mad

Fallalot searched for many Years
Finding naught but bitter tears
But cats, being what they are
Rufus really didn’t travel far
And was safely home in just a couple of days, maybe three, but less than four, I’m sure!

The End

—–

A Disturbing Oath

by Deb Whittam

Laudable deeds will be done,
By me and my thwart chums.
We will destroy a dragon, deliver
a prickly pear, all of this with a devil
may care attitude, Nay we will not beg,
Of favor soothe, we will not
Shed that evil truth, we are not
Of that ilk, we always wear
Pure silk undies, Did I dare
To sully your ears,
With my jest? Do not fear I will
Repent, and suffer under your
judgement. My fellows we do
not seek to distress, though we
would not mind to wear
your best dress. We are here to
assist, we assure, just don’t look
in that bottom drawer.
Companions of the table, which
was kind of round, we will praise
you until you are beneath,
The ground and even there
we will not desist, bury us with you
and our hearts will be in bliss.

—–

Epic

by Bryntin

I stood ready at the gates
barriers of glass and steel
my chariot afore me
with just the one squeaky wheel

I drew myself up
to my full imposing height
six feet of rippling ripples
ready for the fight

in my hand was ready
my orders and my token
to be her champion
without getting myself too broken

I had arrived so ready
keyed up for the battle
I circulated among them
found my space like milking cattle

I drew my breaths deeply
hoping they weren’t my last
I was ready, ploughing forwards
the swish of the barrier past

my quarry was beyond
more chariots, some unattended
by warriors or heathens
I made my way, unbended

the path was twisty, arduous
and I had to stop upon the way
gradually filled my chariot
for my sins I had to pay

messages upon the skies
bright colours burning upon the walls
one for free and three for one
watch out for those cutting falls

I looked into the eyes
of the fellows all around me
a hollow look, an emptiness
beaten by the melee

at the end of the maze
chariot champions one and all
waiting in line for absolution
and release from the market hall

—–

The Tale of the Otiose Man

by Kristian Fogarty

Hark and listen to this tale of old,

Of an oafish man, quite otiose,

Who’d believe any story he was told,

And act in a manner bellicose.

Belligerently he’d wander around

Spouting words of nonsense, some would cheer

Picking fights wherever honest men were found,

His arrogance defying belief, year on year.

But wait! Don’t look back with wistful eyes,

It was in the past, a book upon the shelf.

Appears again, this otiose man who belief defies,

For history is always repeating itself.

—–

A FARNARKELING GOOD ADVENTURE

Upon a nonce, amidst general farnarkerling,

a fair maiden did set her sights

on a handsome prince in tights

so she could wear his ring a’sparkling.

In her way, as was her feckless fancy,

she feigned to plight her troth

to a handsome Visigoth

known as Screaming Nancy.

The handsome prince, with heart full sick,

swore and swore and swore and swore

that up with this he would not forbore

and plotted war, down to the last tooth and pick.

He gathered full his skirtling Scots all skittish

and filled his lungs

and spoke in tongues

of once more defending the breeches of the British.

Come battle day, his fulsome steed he mounted

and waved his sword

around the sward

then charged the Nancy boys uncounted.

Full well sounded the irony ring of wrath

‘gainst shields both stout and flimsy

‘til the prince’s tilt proved but whimsy

and he was vanquish-ed by the Visigoth.

The maiden shed a seemly tear or two

then plighted her troth

to the Visigoth

known as Screaming Nancy.

—–

The Adventures of Me
(Or an Epic Poem of (not-so) Laudable Deeds and (somewhat-less-than) Grand Gestures)

by Michael Fishman

I climbed the ladder.
Climbed it well.
Hoping to remove the gutter smell.

I grabbed the gutter.
Grabbed it hard.
Tossed the gunk down on the yard.

Then I felt wobbly.
Knees got weak.
Bent my head and took a peak.

Ground below.
¡fear of heights!
Someone give me my last rites.

Please God end this wild adventure.
This great misguided risky venture.

(Suddenly I started thinking of rhymes archaic
but wanted to try and stay prosaic so we continue . . . )

I don’t do adventures.
No laudible deeds.
I sit and worry as thoughts stampede.

Why climb a ladder?
I don’t know.
My brain is filled with diced tomato.

My attempts at adventure.
They don’t go well.
And last about as long as a snowball in (you-know-where).

I shouldn’t share this.
I’ve got some gall.
But I do it because it’s
Terrible Poetry after all

and I am
proud to be a

Terrible Poet.

You know it.

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

We start out on this crazy epic adventure
A divided party for such a risky reckless venture
Saying goodbye to friends is always hard
Especially when they neighbours in our backyard
Off on our own into the great wide open
Led by our leader who is so outspoken
Into the massing storm clouds we strike out
On a wing and a prayer without any real clout
Many wolves circling claiming to be our new friends
Sign on the dotted line and you can reap the dividends
But only if you agree to the orange wolfs demands
Give me your NHS and we can happily shake hands
Don’t forget as part of the deal you take our chlorinated chicken
It’s full of good stuff honest and it won’t make you sicken
An epic adventure without any real plan
Hoping countries are nice to us including Kazakhstan
Even before we leave the lies and untruths are beginning to appear
While those making hedge fund fortunes continue to sneer
On any epic adventure you need a swashbuckling hero
Sadly we have no Aragorn to lead us just a bumbling self centred zero
This adventure of ours has a name called Brexit
Please excuse me now as I try to leg-it

—–

The House Hunt

It came upon a midnight dreary

My dearie said to me

Let’s fly across the pond

To see what we can see

While I work.

Homeless we were

About a month

The temporary housing

Was great-but the stairs 🤦‍♀️

The food? It was different

TV so very different

Oh wait-house hunt

We found one

Yippee

—–

Many thanks, loyal fans and poets, for your tales. Return at 10, on the morrow, for another topic of which to write.

fresco-3357_1920

Matt: D. Wallace Peach created this graphic that you can use (if you want) for a badge of honor as the winner:

After this hectic weekend, I intend to change the graphic. For now, it’ll do.

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

January 24, 2020Chel Owens 38 Comments

Another day, another delay. Not for naught, y’all: I’ve been havin’ a devil of a time pickin’ a poem jus’ awful enough to win.

Tonight, that winner’s:

The Giant Mozzie of Kozzie

I went searchin’ for the treasure
The wealth beyond measure
That would bring me great pleasure
Up there in the blue azure.
Atop the mount called Kozzie
The dream of every Ozzie
Lay hidden in a secret pozzie
And guarded by a giant mozzie.

Chorus
Nobody knows the trouble I have seein’
Since I’s bit on the eye
While reachin’ for the sky
By the mozzie of Kosciuszko.

Congratulations, Doug! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

I read my favorite four or five several times before settling on Doug’s contribution. I believe he stood out for the overdone ‘ie’ rhyming, the nonsense, and the …well, probably for the nonsense. Well done.

As to the rest? See if you can get through them:

Oh, I’m a Gonna Go!

by Peregrine Arc

I’m a gonna go out where the wind durst blow
Sand in my knickers and mud in my toes
Where cow pies rightly disappear and the crickets eat them dangburned rusted bandoliers!
Where the guns don’t get to shootin’,
Where there’s no high brow falutin’
And everyone dances ’till half past three…
If you need me, why that there where’s I’ll be….l
In the Land of Absolution…!

—–

Hunka-Hunka

by The Abject Muse

When I ain’t got no tomorrows

when the strings all bust on my banjo

I’m gonna change my undershirt

an’ go to my hunka hunka heaven on dirt.

It’s paradise, hell yes it is

with a little wood shack to take a whiz.

Among green trees and birds that chirp

my hunka hunka heaven on dirt.

—–

Morose Melodrama #1

by Deb Whittam

I stare at it in defeat,
My heart it don’t want to beat
Me, run up that?
Yeah right, I would also like
To invite Mike Tyson to a fight.
Lofty and high it will prevail,
I, well, I am destined to fail.
But I grit my teeth,
And take that first step,
Pause and gasp,
Time for a rest.
Four hours later at the top I am,
Now how the hell do I get back down.

—–

A haven or Heaven?

by Trent P. McDonald

It would be bliss on Earth here…
(Hold on, I’ll be right there)
Uhm, I like to sit in my chair
(I said I was coming!!)
Not really work, but, well, bumming…
(Hold your horses)
Uhm, bumming about, reading some sources
(Darn it, I’m in the middle of a sentence!)
Doing writing penitence
(Not a story, a poem. What? No, I said I’m, writing poetry…)
No one to bother me, even if it is three…
(Just a minute!)
Uhm, three AM and I’m really in t’ it
(I don’t care if supper is getting cold)
‘Cause being disturbed while writing gets old
(OK, OK, I give up)
So heaven would be to write undisturbed from sundown to sun up…

—–

Heaven to be sung to the tune of “Waltzing Matilda” if it fits

by Bruce Goodman

Heaven is like a suitcase in the
luggage compartment of a train
hopefully the owner
is sitting down somewhere on the train
and will claim the suitcase from the
luggage compartment when the passenger wants to get off.

Heaven is also like the toothbrush that’s in the
suitcase along with some toothpaste
and a flannel
and some aftershave – to be bannal.
I also like to think that Heaven is like mowing the lawn.

Chorus: Parsley sage rosemary and thyme
Heaven is on my mine
Kumbaya Kumbaya
Those who don’t want to get to Heaven
can go to Hell
but I’m sure ev’ryone who reads this
will have a better idea whether or not they want to get there
so Michael row your boat ashore.

—–

Untitled piece

by Bryntin

I wasn’t going to do a poem
for the bad poetry competition this week
because the theme was ‘The Big Rock Candy Mountain’
and that sounded a bit country ‘n’ western
what I thought about it was
that it sounded very much like
the sort of thing that would
have the sounds of a slide guitar in it
god I hate the sound of a slide guitar
‘just settle on a note!’ I think
‘don’t play an instrument
like a drunken man, trying to walk
bouncing off doorways and
speaking whole sentences in one continuous word’
anyway, then I read the lyrics
for the song that is the theme
and saw it was full of peoples dreams
for what they imagine might be plentiful
in this fantasy place, their heaven
so I thought perhaps mine would be slide guitars
stripped and remade into proper guitars
that people played different notes and chords on
one at a time mostly
properly
like musicians, not drunkards
Some might ask
‘wouldn’t slide guitars, for you
be in ‘the other place?’
and I’d say ‘no,
would you deny me the pleasure
in my heaven
of seeing them being destroyed?’
so then I listened to the song
to get my inspiration
and it didn’t have slide guitar on it
so this was all a waste of time really
I’ll probably have to do something
about abundant custard creams instead

—–

For Rent

by Thru Violet’s Lentz

Don’t much wanna go to heaven
wouldn’t know no one there, no way
as the kind that I holds near and dear
won’t be a gettin’ thru them pearly gates.

There’s a better chance you’ll find me
sittin’ round a fire ring somewheres
talkin’ loud and smoking Marlboro’s
next to a tub a ice cold beer.

Wearing an old King Diamond tee shirt
and a pair a too tight jeans
sittin’ on some ol’ boys lap, feelin’ frisky-
in the trailer park o my dreams…

Where on every space there’s a double wide
and the lot rents paid in full
and my sister’s- ex-fi-ance’s -brother-in-law
has done his last parole.

So when I exit life’s long lost highway
don’t you be a worrin’ ’bout where I’ve gone
’cause I’m sure there’ll be a For Rent sign
on a nice li’l trailer in the great beyond….

—–

Big Science Mountain

by H.R.R. Gorman

The mad scientist created
Freeze rays and said, “This is the best,
I dare anyone to beat me.
I’ll freeze banks and avoid arrest,
Then freeze folks at the city hall
To cause the government to fall.
Yessir, I’m gonna have a ball,
With my freeze ray and my money.

—–

Heaven via Hell

If you wanna go to heaven
Hell’s where you belong
Cause you can’t get to heaven
Unless you’re in hell for way too long

Walk with the devil
Play with evil demons
Wait for the angels
To carry you all the way home

Oh oh oh
Go to hell
Go to hell
You can’t get to heaven
Except through hell

—–

Thanks, y’all, fer a most entertainin’ evenin’. Come on back, now, once you’ve had yer rest and I’ll post a topic fer next week ’round 10 tomorrer.

marko-mudrinic-EW04roNVHLg-unsplash

Doug: D. Wallace Peach created this graphic that you can use (if you want) for a badge of honor as the winner:

I didn’t have the time to make one after your suggested patron saint, but intend to once I take a moment to do so.

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

January 18, 2020January 19, 2020Chel Owens 31 Comments

Howdy, young’uns. This here be the Terrible Poetry Contest. We been hostin’ y’all fer 55 rounds now.

If’n yer not sure a’ yerself, click here. Bad poetry’s about as tricky as kissin’ an ornery donkey that may jest be yer mother-in-law.

Here are yer ‘pecifics:

I hear tell the Topic‘s a folk song ’bout heaven. You done heard ’bout “The Big Rock Candy Mountain?” Sing me where yer moun’ain is an’ where you’d be.
I ain’t got all day, so’s a good verse an’ chorus’ll do me fer Length.
And then there’s that Rhymin‘ business. You go’n ahead and do it if’n it’s there in yer heaven.
I say to Make it terrible. Me an’ my boys will ‘termine to add you to our Mulligan Stew soon’s we hear it sung.
Now, son: yer idea a’ the hereafter may just include some things more sensitive types shouldn’a read. Keep things under the PG belt, if’n you can.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (January 24, 2020) to submit a poem.

Use the form b’low to keep things a secret.

To share all ’round, go ‘head an’ post in those there comments. Let the judge know if’n you don’ see a pingback after sundown.

Y’all have fun now, ya hear!

marko-mudrinic-EW04roNVHLg-unsplash

Photo credit:
Marko Mudrinic

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

March 1, 2019March 13, 2019Chel Owens 22 Comments

I was worried when I didn’t get many entries for this week’s contest. Perhaps you were shy? In the end, though, we had a good and difficult-to-judge turnout. Thank you all for participating; you make picking a winner nigh impossible every Friday.

No more suspense. The winner is Furious Pockets.

“It’s Raining Phlegm,” from “It’s Raining Men”

by Furious Pockets

Temperature is rising — energy’s getting low
According to my doctor, work is not the place to go
Cause today, I don’t feel fine,
And since just about half-past ten
For some weird reason, a mystery,
My nose started raining phlegm!

It’s raining phlegm! Gesundheit, it’s raining phlegm! Ahem!
I’m gonna stay inside and let my tissues get
Absolutely soaking wet!

It’s raining phlegm! Gesundheit, it’s raining phlegm! Every specimen!
Yellow, green, lumpy and long
And sometimes red—I think something’s wrong!

WITH a much-needed Honorable Mention to Michael B. Fishman, who wrote EIGHT song parodies this week. I had trouble picking a favorite, but laughed the most with “Traction.”

“Traction” (“Satisfaction”)

I can’t get no, tire traction.
I can’t get no, tire traction.
Tires spin, and they spin, and they spin and they spin
I can’t get no . . .

When I’m drivin’ in the snow,
and the weatherman’s saying what I already know;
he’s supposed to bring back warmer weather –
supposed to clear up icy roads.
I can’t get no . . . No traction.

Congratulations, Furious Pockets! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

Every week, I post the entrants from the form and from the announcement post into a new blog post. I paste them without names, then go do something to cleanse my memories of who wrote what. I try my darndest to be impartial.

Today took so long because of a busy schedule, but also because I could not settle on a winner. You all write so terribly well, and parody well enough to make a grown Al Yankovic cry. At such a high level of skill, cleverness, and cringiness; I went with Furious Pockets for following the original song meter well, mostly keeping to the subject, and for a terrible subject matter.

As is our usual, this does not mean the rest were any less terrible. If you submitted a poem/song this week, go right ahead and give yourself an awkward pat on the back. These are fantastic:

“Just Pay Me” (“Let it Be”)

When I find my teeth feel like loose rubble,
Dentist Mary comes to me speaking words of crowns and
“Just pay me, just pay me.”
And when I hear the drilling she is standing right in front of me,
“I’ll save your teeth of wisdom, just pay me, just pay me.”

—–

Inspired by “Ice, Ice Baby” by Vanilla Ice

by Peregrine Arc

Alright stop.
Collaborate and listen, while I sit back in my brand new invention
The muse will grab ahold of you tightly
It’ll flow like a harpoon deadly and mighty
Will it ever stop? Yo I don’t know
Let’s turn on the lights and watch the poet go
To the extreme I wield my pen
Light up the words and rhyme like a fluffy hen

Nice, nice poetry… Really nice, nice poetry.
Nice, nice poetry. It’s really nice nice poetry…

—–

Untitled, but mostly seems inspired by “Bohemian Rhapsody”

by Nitin

Mama just drilled a man (not what you think!)
Put a drill against his teeth
Pulled the trigger, now the cavity’s filled
Mama that tooth was just decaying
But now I’ve gone and filled it all the way
Mama, saaay ahhh
Didn’t mean to become a dentist
If I’m not administering anaesthetic tomorrow
Scream on, scream on because everything matters

—–

“Bird Drips Keep Fallin’” (“Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head“)

Bird drops keep falling on my head,
and just like guy whose head is not really too big I never wear a hat,
those bird drops keep falling on my head and I’m bawling.
Because they smell, and they don’t smell very well.

—–

To the tune of the old Beatles classic: “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”

by TanGental

Position yourself on the left of the centre
A democrat with a glint in the eye
Make a friend with a tea party member
Who’s more interested in the How than the Why.
Set up a committee to debate the issues
That matter to ordinary men on the bus.
Given them a budget to commission reporting
And let them know you don’t want a fuss.
Technical topics are always banned
They’ll only go over your heads
Look instead for a popular cause like a wall
And it’s done
Nancy’s in cahoots with Donald
Nancy’s in cahoots with Donald, ah, ah
Follow them now until the election
And watch as they build a castle of lies.
No one smiles and everything’s gone sour
And the only way out is to get high….

—–

“The Buffet” (“A Horse With No Name”)

On the first leg of the buffet I was looking at all the rice.
There was brown and white and jasmine too
all this food for just one low price.

At the first stop on the buffet I was holding a sharp steak knife
There was strip, T-Bone and sirloin too
all this food who needs Herbalife?

I’ve been through the buffet with a plate in my hand
the beans were cold but I didn’t complain.
At the buffet you can eat ‘till you puke
until your belt it can’t stand the strain.

—–

“My Dear Ottoman” (“Mrs. Robinson”)

And here’s to you, my dear ottoman,
seize my bottom with your wired spring coils
Woo, woo, woo.
Oh if you please, my dear ottoman,
I hope your fabric never fades away
Hey, hey, hey.

I’d like to know a little bit about your plushy piles
and how they always manage to soothe mine.
I sit on you for hours and I stand up with a smile
stroll around the house until I sit again.

—–

“All You Need is Money!” (“All You Need is Love”)
“Can you Imagine?” (“Imagine”)
“HELP!” (“Help!”)

Cash, Cash, Cash,
Cash, Cash, Cash
Cash, Cash, Cash

Imagine there’s no money
It’s hard but please try
No food in your belly
Above you only sky

I need some money
(Help) not just pennies
(Help) Hands up!! I want some
(huzza)

Imagine all the rich folks
Living like you do
Beggars would be riders
Horses wishes too

All you need is cash
Cash is all you need

—–

“Ambitious Kinds” (“Suspicious Minds”)

I just caught the clap, from some gal I met.
Why did I think I loved you baby?

Why can’t you see, what you’ve given to me?
How will I ever tell my family?

We can’t get back together, this penicillin’s mine.
And we can’t get together, until the doc says you’re fine.

—–

“Brainy Gals and Sundaes” (“Rainy Days and Mondays”)

Walkin’ by myself and feeling cold.
Sometimes I will admit
to feeling like I just don’t fit.
Lookin’ around,
Trying not to feel cast down,
brainy gals and sundaes always get me down.

What I’ve got to do is lift my mood.
Tell myself it’s not my fault,
forget the sundae, drink a malt.
Lookin’ around,
sad eyes and a broken frown.
Brainy gals and sundaes always get me down.

Funny but it seems I always crave a barbecue.
Nice to know somebody’s cooking.
Funny but it seems that when I wake up and come to,
she is still so darn good looking. (So darn good loooooooking)

What I feel I can make go away.
But ice cream makes me want to pout
and brainy gals I can’t sort out
Moping around,
feeling like I’ve just been drowned,
brainy gals and sundaes always get me down.

—–

“That Tea Cozy” (“Cracklin’ Rosie”)