| The studded cinctures were a band |
| From gloomy Ann harbor, Michigan |
| And they wrote just for you |
| These irrelevant tunes |
| And with each heart-wrenching, fictitious wail |
| You’d swear they sang your life with veracious details |
| The tears trickle down your face |
| Your skinny arms begin to flail |
| You can catch them any day of the week |
| At the legion hall down the street |
| In your unromantic town |
| They’re guaranteed to bring you down |
| And as the clumsy singer takes the stage |
| He whips the mic in an ardent way |
| And now the girls begin to blush |
| Never had they’ve been so terribly touched |
| By such an illiterate bum |
| Oh, won’t you say what you mean |
| Give us a moment of offering |
| Perhaps a pinch of your view |
| We love the second-rating, the repetition |
| The metaphors stripped of all gail, alright |
| With a handful of pomade in hair |
| He shoots a pitifully pouty stare |
| At the nurtured audience |
| And this is easing his conscience |
| Hustling and taking knee with brow in hand |
| He shrieks the works of another man |
| A standing ovation |
| Vulnerable child, you’ve been taken advantage of |
| By such a carnivorous bum |
| Oh, won’t you say what you mean |
| Give us a moment of offering |
| Perhaps a pinch of your view |
| We love the second-rating, the repetition |
| And the metaphors stripped of all gail, stripped of all gail |
| Oh, won’t you say what you mean |
| Give us a moment of offering |
| Perhaps a pinch of your view |
| We love the second-rating |
| Oh, won’t you say what you mean |
| Give us a moment of offering |
| Perhaps a pinch of your views |
| We all love the second-rating, the repetition |
| And the metaphors |