Category: Lyrics

Caterwaul

Another Saturday night and I ain’t got no Barbie
Not even Skipper ’cause my mom said no
Now how I wish I had some doll to play with
Even a G.I. Joe

I lost my doll a month ago
Or I’da styled a lotta curls since then
I coulda trimmed ‘n’ permed ‘n’ set ’em
But sometimes I forget ’em
That’s how I’m in the state I’m in

Another Saturday night and I ain’t got no Barbie
Not even Skipper ’cause my mom said no
Now how I wish I had some doll to play with
Even a G.I. Joe

Another neighbor told me
A Betsy-Wetsy would suit me fine
But I don’t wanna change a diaper
I’m not a bottom-wiper
I might try Frankenstein

Another Saturday night and I ain’t got no Barbie
Not even Skipper ’cause my mom said no
Now how I wish I had some doll to play with
Even a G.I. Joe

It’s hard for kids in the sixties
Who got no dough to throw around
On keepin’ up with all the latest
The grooviest, the greatest
The spacey-ageist toys in town

Another Saturday night and I ain’t got no Barbie
Not even Skipper ’cause my mom said no
Now how I wish I had some doll to play with
Even a G.I.– Oh!
Even a G.I.– No!
Even a G.I. Joe

Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid

Dressed in plaid in Baton Rouge
Wading on a drain
Feeling proud I’d dated Esma Jean
Bobby found a diesel van
Rusted, prearranged
To tow us all away to New Orleans

I sold my harpoon
For thirty red bananas
I’m sewing socks
While Bobby drinks the booze
Will she wipe her lap in time?
I’m holding Bobby’s dandelion
Wheezing every song Red Ryder knew

Reading’s just bunch o’ words:
“Your cousin’s vindaloo”
A muffin ain’t worth nothin’ if it’s free
Feeling good was easier
When Bobby shined her shoes
And only Kris Kristofferson could be
Good enough for Me and Bobby McGee

In A Manner Reminiscent Of A Peripatetic Mineral

Once upon a time
You used to give the bums a dime…
Kidding! You
Never carry change
So even having dimes is strange
They’re nearly worthless, too.
That’s what Venmo’s for
And anyway, what’s more
You can’t demean a human being
By saying “bum”
You don’t know where they’re coming from
Or what is their deal…
How would you feel?
How would you feel
If you were all alone
And didn’t have a home
Or even own a phone
So there’s no Venmo’n?

C-Dubs The Least-Loved Ranch Hand

There’s Carlson, Whit, Crooks, The Boss, George and Lennie.
There’s Candy and Curly and Slim (’cause he’s skinny).
But do you recall
The most disrespected of all?

C-Dubs, the least-loved ranch hand,
Didn’t even have a name
And everyone who saw her
Would have told you she’s to blame.

All of the other ranch hands
Had a Y beside their X.
Homogametic C-Dubs
Shoulda chose a different sex.

Finding Lennie in the hay,
C-Dubs came to say,
“Kilt your pup? Well, that’s all right.
You kin stroke my hair tonight!”

Oh, how the big lug rubbed it!
‘Til she shouted out, then he
Panicked, and poor old C-Dubs
Was shaken out of his story!

“Floozy,” “jail bait,” “tramp” and “bitch,”
“God damn…lousy tart.”
Steinbeck went to town when he
Vented his misogyny.

He wrote the painter’s daughter
Such an awful, tawdry life,
He must have hated C-Dubs
(Which is short for “Curley’s Wife”).

Quoth St. Stephen

My toenails are an unattractive
Lot, a sad, objective fact of
Which I’m all too well aware.
It’s why my feet are rarely bare
In places squeamish people lurk
Like public markets, church and work.
They’re not all bad–most folks are fine
With viewing seven, eight or nine,
But pupils cheer in Hades when
A witness wincelessly sees ten,
So he who keeps his dinner down
Shall be rewarded with a crown
To wear upon the Feast of Steve
(That’s two days after Christmas Eve);
If no one’s perfect, he who least
Is winceful headlines at the Feast
Of Stephen’s Stoning–(Drugs are wrong!)—
To lead the festal folk in song:

Good King Winces Less looked out
On the feets of Stephen
Whilst his toe waved round about,
Cruelly twisted, even….