| Lately, I’ve seen red
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| I’ve tasted blood
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| I’ve killed with words
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| I’ve wished and hoped and
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| Swam through a river of snot
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| Twice as wide as the mighty Mississippi
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| But I wanna know
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| About the commercial I saw on TV
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| An Irish guy
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| Walking through a field of green
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| Whistling one of those Irish jigs
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| And a woman walks up and says
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| «Manly yes, but I like it too.»
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| Then the guy pulls out a huge knife
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| And cuts off his first two fingers
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| And somehow catches them
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| In what’s left of his left hand
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| And hands them to the woman
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| Did I mention they’re both dressed in green?
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| Then they both sing this song together
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| «Are ya icky? |
| Are ya sticky?
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| Are ya hot as anything?
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| Hey cut off two of your fingers
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| And stab yourself in the eye!»
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| Then he stabs himself in the eye
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| And hands her the knife
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| And she stabs herself in the eye
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| Okay? |
| okay? |
| so what about that?
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| Then they join arms
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| And do this Irish folk dance
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| While taking turns dismembering each other
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| This was a commercial for deodorant, I think
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| Or soap or something
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| So now all the body parts
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| Are lying in a heap
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| But the heads are still singing
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| «Are ya icky? |
| Are ya sticky?
|
| Are ya hot as anything?
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| Hey! |
| get away from summer
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| And cut off all your limbs!»
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| Then all of the body parts
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| Start hopping and bopping around
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| Like little bunny rats
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| Then they jump into the mouths of the singing heads
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| But then they just slip right back out
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| Through the severed necks and keep bopping about
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| It’s very beautiful music that’s playing
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| There’s an Irish flute
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| And a mandolin, I think
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| And the background singers sound
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| Just like the Clancy brothers
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| It’s really a wonderful commercial
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| Spectacular
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| It must’ve cost a fortune to make
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| The kind of commercial you’d see
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| During the Super Bowl, maybe
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| Where the advertising time costs
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| A million dollars a half a minute
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| Wow, imagine that
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| A million dollars for a half a minute!
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| Anyway, by the end of it
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| It looks like the two of them
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| Have been through a juicer
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| Or a food processor
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| Or a blender or something
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| It’s just a pink puree of blood, bone and flesh in a big bucket
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| But it’s still singing somehow
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| «Are ya icky? |
| Are ya sticky?
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| Are ya hot as anything?
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| Hey! |
| Blend yourself, process yourself
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| Become a glass of animal juice!»
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| «Haven't you had enough
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| Of fruit juices and vegetable juices?
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| Next time company comes over
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| Offer them a cool refreshing glass of yourself!
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| Give of yourself
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| Stop being such a selfish piece of snot
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| Okay? |
| Okay? |
| Okay!»
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| «And now, back to our program.» |