She can't get no satyr action,
She can't get no sack reaction.
But she sighs, and she cries, and she plies, and she pries.
She can't get no, was once wet, though. . . .

Now she's dryin' out—no carn'—
Been months since her man has made her "O".
So she went out and tried to score
Him some lubeless preparation,
S'pposed to inspire invagination—
Still can't get no O-O-O.
Hey, he, hey—maybe he's gay?

She can't get no satyr action,
All there is, is slack retraction.
But she dries, and she dries, and she dries, and she dries.
She can't get no; no baguette, no.

He would rather watch TV
He's a man who once expelled seed.
Meanwhile, her skirt she's freed;
She'll dance like Salome; he won't take a poke.
She's lickerish as can be.
But she can't get no—woe, woe, woe—
Lay, lay, lay, he must be gay!

He has got a sagging sack shunt.
She tries to put it in traction.
First he lies, then she ties, pulls him high, to the sky.
It won't jet, so—she just lets go.

She says, "Let's go "round the world!
I'll be chewing this; you'll be minin' that."
He says, "Make me a drink, girl."
Then she knows she will never get him to peek or peak.
Lost cause—he's on a boozin' streak.
Got a wet throat; he wants no throat.
Play, Play, Play Dough—like soft clay.

She can't get no, she can't get no
She can't get no, no satyr action
No satyr action, no satyr action, no satyr action.