I was walking down the street and singing,
I was wet and my stockings were clinging.
But twasn’t the rain,
I had stepped in a drain
I was walking down the street and singing,
I was wet and my stockings were clinging.
But twasn’t the rain,
I had stepped in a drain,
And my bell-bottom pants needed wringing.
The magic pill dissolved fast in my throat,
The magic pill dissolved fast in my throat,
It tasted just like creosote,
The magic pill dissolved fast in my throat,
It tasted just like creosote,
Then I sprouted a beanstalk
The magic pill dissolved fast in my throat,
It tasted just like creosote,
Then I sprouted a beanstalk,
Where once there had been dork
The magic pill dissolved fast in my throat,
It tasted just like creosote,
Then I sprouted a beanstalk,
Where once there had been dork,
But it’s well hidden inside my coat.
Grandma Moses sat on the front porch,
Grandma Moses sat on the front porch
Smoking crack with her pipe and a torch
Grandma Moses sat on the front porch
Smoking crack with her pipe and a torch
Then she grabbed at her palette
Grandma Moses sat on the front porch
Smoking crack with her pipe and a torch
Then she grabbed at her palette
But instead, seized a mallet
Grandma Moses sat on the front porch,
Smoking crack with her pipe and a torch.
Then she grabbed at her palette,
But instead, seized a mallet,
And broke the coke so that it could scorch.
An old gunslinger who lived in the West,
An old gunslinger who lived in the West,
Put his Indian sidekick to the test.
An old gunslinger who lived in the West,
Put his Indian sidekick to the test.
“Is this kale, or kohlrabi?”
An old gunslinger who lived in the West,
Put his Indian sidekick to the test.
“Is this kale, or kohlrabi?”
“I don’t much care, Kemosabe.”
An old gunslinger who lived in the West,
Put his Indian sidekick to the test.
“Is this kale, or kohlrabi?”
"I don’t much care, Kemosabe,
“I can’t think when you stand there undressed.”
The blacksmith was forging a sword
The blacksmith was forging a sword
For a grumpy, tight-fisted dwarf lord
The blacksmith was forging a sword
For a grumpy, tight-fisted dwarf lord
From iron of low grade
The blacksmith was forging a sword
For a grumpy, tight-fisted dwarf lord
From iron of low grade
and obsidian blade
The blacksmith was forging a sword
For a grumpy, tight-fisted dwarf lord
From iron of low grade
and obsidian blade
When he saw it, the dwarf lord roared.
At a party I met John Wayne Bobbit
At a party I met John Wayne Bobbit,
He was so short that I could not throb it.
At a party I met John Wayne Bobbit,
He was so short that I could not throb it.
It’s kept so well-hidden,