| I gotta act like David Ruffin
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| Cause y’all be softer than Egg McMuffins
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| Plus you’re never really saying nothing
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| You don’t admit to any claim jumping
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| This is why I have to pay these munchkins to
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| Clobber goons in locker rooms with waterballons
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| And sashay with gumption
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| The heir apparent of the feral lads in American Apparel ads
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| Rises from the glow of the back-lit keys
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| The html formatted speak’n’spell door magnet
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| Looks futuristic and Japanese
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| But my onomonopoetic Somalia surname
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| Makes me look four-legged like I got fur, fangs
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| And a diamond encrusted gun butt in my mud hut
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| You’ve hyphenated my dance reprise yet still…
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| Me, I do the wop with no dance license
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| Me, I do the wop with no dance license
|
| Me, I do the wop with no dance license
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| And I ain’t got legible handwriting
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| How the fuck you talk with a cockney patois
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| When you come from the Rockies have thawed
|
| Plus you got all our parties back logged
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| When we left everybody slack-jawed
|
| I’m aware you step softly on padded paw
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| But I know you gave your acorns to gay porn from the waveform
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| Of your raunchy rap slaw
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| The oxymoronic tinged band of Guatemalan twins
|
| Isn’t worth opening my polka dot lids
|
| The water-resistant faux-hawk gets road blocked
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| By the color copies of my MOCA pop quiz
|
| But my circuit-bent key tar and icky lens cameraman
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| The fact that I’m on the shitty end of this ampersand
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| Makes me what to do the Roger Rabbit in a bomber jacket
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| To the polyrhythm of the soda pop fizz cause still
|
| Me, I do the wop with no dance license
|
| Me, I do the wop with no dance license
|
| Me, I do the wop with no dance license
|
| And I ain’t got legible handwriting
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| So y’all can’t bite
|
| Show them shoes a bit
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| Prick those chubby digits
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| Show them shoes a bit
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| Prick those chubby digits
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| Salvaged from the mouths of motors
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| Plucked from legislative branches
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| To enact these native dances
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| Sooth me babbling brook
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| I’m shell shocked by the blaring red phone
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| Name checked on the sterling headstone
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| How can I sell this high-top fade?
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| Oh wee, throw the grappling hook |