Music Up Your Ass

I've got bugs and beetles crawling up my pant leg
Along with some hair thing called a scrunchy
And explosive metal sharks.
And the TV men with swords in their mouths
Tell me if I cross my i's, I should dot myt t's and accent all my marks.

And my thalamus is gone and my genetic pool is shot,
And I'd like to eat my car, but it's the only one I've got,
So I tell you in binary that I'd like my ceiling fixed
And you respond, request forms should be filed in base six.
And I know that it's improper using 'me' instead of 'I'
But your face is mesomorphic with the stamen on my tie.
I don't think this artificial glass
Is the fuel that made me use up all this gas.
No one here but music up your ass.

Music up your ass! Music up your ass!
Someday I'll be good looking,
And I'll have a million friends,
And I'll go see all the shows
My favorite critic recommends,
But until then I'll just sit here in the grass.
Just happy sticking music up your ass.

On the mantle in the bedroom there's a jar made of cardboard
That contains three handsome puffins and a user-friendly guide.
And I wonder if it's wonderful, I think,
The way the people think it's wonderful
The way there's so much fun it can provide.

And a lion that concerned itself with Cuernavacan ships
Now smiles through its severed head and tissue paper lips,
Oblivious to all the candy in its past
And the lack of brandy floating in my glass.
Nothing gives but music up your ass.

Music up your ass! Music up your ass!
So your dry cell has a nursery
It wants to occupy,
And it tries to split asexually
But can't because it's dry
Yet inertia's still proportional to mass,
So there's no stopping music up your ass.
No there's no stopping music up your ass.

No recording available
Copyright 1993 Zach London