I assume this will be moved soon.
GEE, TYLER DURDEN
(Sung to the tune of “Gee, Officer Krupke” from West Side Story)
You’re batshit, Tyler Durden,
But we all can see
It’s your up-bringen’
That makes you hate society,
Our mothers dominate,
Our fathers ran away,
And now we’re all dressed in black!
Or
GREASED BICEPS
(Sung to the tune of “Greased Lightnin’” from Grease)
Well, Tyler’s homicidial, suicidal, fratricidal
With greased biceps!
We’ll get a dusky old basement and a bunch of angsty guys oh yeah
(Start fightin’ yeah! Start fightin’!)
Seven simple rules every Saturday night, oh yeah
(But not for money, no, not for money)
And when your noggin hits the floor, it’s over and time for two more,
I’ll pound you in the tit, 'cause I look just like Brad Pitt
With greased biceps!
Or
HE’S ME??
(Sung to the tune of “C’est Moi” from Camelot)
Paper Street! Paper Street!
From my insomniac life, I heard his call,
Paper Street! Paper Street!
We duked it out, I gave my all,
I knew somehow Tyler wasn’t what I thought him to be,
But I shit myself when I found he was me!
As a revolution’s leader, I dressed like a slob,
As an interior designer I’ve failed,
Now Bob wants to join though he doesn’t have balls,
And the cops want to send me to jail!
It sure hurt like hell when I poured lye on my hand,
And I’ve been banging that chick who played an ape,
And all this time I thought it was someone else,
Boy, I sure do have egg on my face!
He’s me! He’s me, I’m forced to concede!
Tyler Durden was me all along,
The soap salesman who
Has been laughing at you,
He’s me, and he’s been using my dong!
I didn’t lose that first fight after all
Or, I guess I lost to myself,
I ask where Tyler is and it’s always the same,
“Sir, why don’t you ask yourself?”
He’s me! Holy Christ! I’m confused,
I guess I’m a psycho at heart,
And here I stand with my pistol in hand,
Making flashback jokes as my final stand,
I’ll shoot my own head off to start!