I see flying monkeys and petunias
In my own backyard
I be tying donkeys to begonias
In my own backyard

Walking around with a mango in his butt
Get on the bus, fool
She be getting that mango in the butt
Get up and truss, fool
Sitting pretty in her underwear
Making deals with people who do not care
What's that she's got in her hair
Mango juice comin' dripping' on down!

Who do you trust, Gus?
Ain't your name?
Ain't that a shame
I ain't talkin' to you anyways
Cry me a river, wide as the Jordan
Get back on the bus, fool
Ain't enough sharin'
Ain't enough carin'
Some self-righteous fool tell me to get off the bus
And his name ain't Gus
And neither is yours, fool
This is not a lyrics writeup

If I had a dollar for every time that man on the corner told me to take a hike, I'd be able to buy me a Snickers bar. Or is that a trademark. I better hide it in my pants. This is serious, fool. If you ain't on the bus, you best be drivin' your own car, else you be a walkin'.

Tell me about some history
Tell me 'bout your life someday
Dream a little dream for me
Pick that cabbage out from beneath your teeth
You don't look as pretty as you used to be
Ain't it free, free to be me
Livin' a life of make believe
This is not real life.
This is text.
And this is not a lyrics writeup

I heard a song once, fool. I listened to it and I played it again. It spoke to me. Some kind of fucked up universal language of sound. I turned it up a little bit louder. They gots these pretty words in some of these here songs. Sometimes I jot them down. Stealin' ain't stealin' when stealin' is sharin'. Get on the bus. Greyhound number 67 leaving the station. Albuquerque and all points in between. Livin' in the bright sunshine. Life awaits with prickly colors. Fill in the blanks. I gots to pour some nice whole milk on my sugar filled cereal this morning. Drink down my coffee and pop a couple of pills. Rock on. Can't cross that river until you find the shore.

He's just a singer in a rock and roll band.
Shares his words and sings his songs.
Selling records is his game,
'cept we don't much call them records anymore.

A story in a song
A woman in a thong
These are the things that try men's souls
If you wanted loyalty
You would have gotten a black lab.

Who do you trust, Gus?
The man who shares?
The woman that cares?
We ain't talkin' about them anyways
I bought me a car, from a dude named Gordon
He said "Get back on the bus, fool"
His wife, name of Karen
Always had music blarin'
They never got off the godforsaken bus
And that was a plus
Where you drivin' to, fool?
This is not a lyrics writeup

The singer stopped me on the side of the road. Guitar slung over his back, and a cigarette dangling from his lip. He gave me a smile, said I was his friend. We packed some sandwiches and headed down to the river. He played me some tunes. I wrote them down on my pad and dreamed of people, places and things that were so far away. He made the music dance in my soul. That dude knew what he was doing. When I wrote down his words, he smiled, knowing something all his talentless motherfucker agents, producers and executives would never understand. We crossed the bridge together and we met in the middle. In the lobby of the local police precinct, they fingerprinted my lame ass and put me in a cell. Later he joined me. I guess they caught him with marijuana in his glove box. Laws are always correct. We deserved what we got. You're either with us or against us.

I heard a song once, fool
I played it in my car
I played it in my home
I played it all night long
Until I knew what it was saying
What it was saying to me
And then I told a friend
And my friend told his friend
And my friend could pay his bail
With the money that we made him
We wuz his get out of jail free card, fool
Doesn't matter, though
'Cuz this is not a lyrics writeup

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