| Yasha was a prodigy since he was a kid of three
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| He could play a rhapsody as good as they come
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| But as strange as it may be Yasha hated melody
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| He had a yen for tympani, he longed to play a drum
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| When his mother made him practice on the fiddle
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| Everyday, he’d stop right in the middle
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| And he’d say
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| Mama, I wanna make rhythm
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| Don’t wanta make music
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| Just wanna go zoozi, zah, zah, zoozi
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| Ooh, cah, dee, doodle, oodle, aah, doo
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| Mama, I wanna get hotcha
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| I wanta make boombah
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| I wanna go gah, gah
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| Za, rah, kah, zat, zow, ooh, dee, lah
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| I’ve got no desire to carry a Stradivarius
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| But there’s no limit
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| Of primitive tom-tom in my tum-tum
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| Mama, I wanna make rhythm
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| Don’t wanta make music
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| Just wanna go wookee ah kay akaya kaya
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| Yag a yag a yag a yag |