Tired of Schleppin’ Phony “Parton Cans”
(Track 1)

It was many years ago one day
that I went and bought these cans to play
in a role where mammoth mounds beguiled
but nowadays they’re just a trial
so maybe now‘s the time to lose
some packing from these silly spheres --
tired of schelppin’ phony “Parton cans.”

I’m tired of schelppin’ phony “Parton cans.,”
how Dolly hauls hers, I don’t know!
Tired of schelppin’ phony “Parton cans,”
these baggy things have got to go!

I’m tired of schelppin’ phony,
tired of schelppin’ phony,
tired of schelppin’ phony
“Parton cans.”

‘S no fun to be full-figured.
At first it seems it will,
‘til clutched at by some bawdy gents
who like to say “Oooh, show them lugs!”
Such guff will make you groan.

Now I’m dealing with a doc I know
tit for tat (he calls it “quid pro quo”).
He’s gonna take the silicon
from the places where it don’t belong
and I in turn am gonna screw
him once and then I’ll give three cheers --
I’m tired of schelppin’ phony “Parton cans!”

Cheers! Cheers! Cheers!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Hand-Swivin’ Is a Really Swell Thing, My Friends
(Track 2)

What would you think if I wank night and noon,
wood in hand, watching porn on TV?
Friends, I don’t care if you think it is wrong
if a guy tugs his thing hourly.
Oh, don’t know why you think it’s repellent, my friends.
Hmm, tell me why you think it’s repellent my friends,
Mmm, not gonna buy what you all tell me, my friends.

What’s it to you if I’m rubbing all day?
Does it hurt you if I tease my bone?
Why should I seal my appendage away?
You’re just mad ’cause you don’t paw your own.
Oh, Is that why you think it’s repellent my friends?
Hmm, I’m not buyin’ what you all tell me, my friends.
Mmm, to hand-swive, is a really swell thing, my friends

Don’t you need any bodies?
I need my rod, here, for love.
Could it be anybody?
I conjure hotties to love.

Rolling up sleeves I can tug noon and night
‘til I’m squirtin’ from my lap, and that’s sublime.
What’s on TV that’s a turn-on tonight?
It’s Funicello and she looks so fine.
Oh, hand-swivin’ is a really swell thing, my friends!
Hmmm, hand-swivin’ is a really swell thing, my friends!
Mmm, to hand-swive is a really swell thing, my friends!

Don’t you need anybody?
I just need “Roddy” for love,
who could be any hottie,
he always ready for love.

Oh, and hand-swivin’ is a really swell thing, my friends
Hey, I get by with a little help from my hands!
Mmm, I get high with a little help from my hands!
Yeah, why not try? It’s a really swell thing, my friends!
it’s a really swell thing, my friends.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Who’s the Meanest Guy That’s Flying?
(Track 3)

“Nick’s a boor,” elves say, “that bloated gift giver’s
no saint, man, that C. C. Moore fellow lies!
Drunken sot, oft stewed, rude, Santa is only
a churlish old guy we despise,
bellowing, glowering, yelling as we,
cowering, onto his sled
hook up the herd of eight reindeer who’ll fly
before dawn.”

Boozy, never dry, while flying.
Woozy, drinking rye, while flying.
Snoozy ’cause he’s high while flying,
Ahhhhh, Ahhhhh …

Falling floor-bound with his midgets around him,
there, knocking back tipples with ardor he lies.
Sev’ral runts smile as he, stiff, passes hours
a-doze as if dead ‘til he flies.
Two babes, his sack, bottled cheer are aboard,
waiting to take off in sleigh.
“Bye, we’ll be back!” shrieks the red-suited clown,
and they’re gone!

Floozies by his side, both trying
to seize Santa’s pride, “Oh my!”-ing
viewing Santa’s size. He’s sighing,
“Ahhhhh , Ahhhhh …“

“Nick’s a boor,” elves say, “that bane of Creation’s
a classless disporter-with-hookers that lies,
drunken old scumbag that sired her whose spurned child’s
a girl very shy and pint-sized.

Cruising right on by, denying
Whoville’s Cindy. “Why?” she’s crying.
“Loser!” he replies bye-byeing,
“Nyahhhh, Nyahhhh …”

Who’s seen drinking rye while flying?
Who can do it twice while flying?
Who’s the meanest guy that’s flying?
Saaaaan-taaaaa

[repeat, fading]

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Fretting Wetter
(Track 4)

A fretting wetter oftentimes …

I used to wake, sad, in a pool. (’Cause my lance had drained)
The people who caught me were cruel, (Filled my pants with rain)
they scolded and frowned, warned me “You’ll drown,
silly boy, rush to the stool.”

I was, I admit, a bedding wetter,
puddle begetter oftentimes. (The puddlin’ curse.)
I was, I admit, a fretting wetter
a piddle-fretter who’d ooze ’til dawn.

Me used to be Pamper™ed young man
’cause I couldn’t get to the can.
Before bladder urged I had already purged,
and I knew I should get a bedpan. Oh …

I was, I admit, a bedding wetter,
puddle begetter oftentimes. (I’d awake immersed.)
I was, I admit, a fretting wetter
a piddle-fretter who’d ooze ’til dawn.
Fretting over wetting all the time.

I was a wetter oftentimes … wetter, wetter, wetter
I was a fretter all the time … fretter, fretter, fretter

I used to would zoom to the loo when my leaker had “wept” at the start but when push came to shove,
man, that latrine might’ve been in Moline
and I under arrest in Japan.

I admit I was a wetter,
puddle begetter oftentimes.
Yes, I admit, I was a wetter
a piddle-fretter who’d ooze ’til dawn.
Fretting over wetting all the time.

I was a wetter oftentimes … wetter, wetter, wetter
I was a fretter all the time … fretter, fretter, fretter
Fretting over wetting all the time.


_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Fixing a Poll
(Track 5)

I’m fixing a poll, rearranging it,
a plot designed for laundering
what votes will show.
Ten million false backers I’ll plan, maybe more.
I’m not inclined to wonder “if”
when I can know.

And it’s really gonna matter … if
I’m wrong I might
not live too long. It might
be my swan song.
See the people standing there whose dictum was to “Get a win”?
I’m gonna die if they don’t win, for sure.

I’ll lay in a tomb if the poll doesn’t say
those “friends” of mine have won. They’ll send
their killers. Ohhh!

[instrumental interlude]

And it’s really gonna matter … if
I’m wrong I might
not live too long. It might
be my swan song.
Killer people, gunners-down—they hurry me,
I must amass those buy-in votes, and fast, for sure!

My faking votes crime’s an outnumbering thing
with current trends to best each day
with shills named “Doe.”

I’m fixing a poll, rearranging it,
a plot designed for laundering
what votes will show.
(What votes will show.)

I’m fixing a poll, yes, I’m changing it.
I’m not inclined to wonder “if”
when I can know.

[fade]


_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


She’s Teasing Stones
(Track 6)

Tender torture’s applied to rocks as foreplay begins …
lying so close on the bed, implored,
she meets his hope that she’ll play with him more,
she gropes down there. Now he’s twitching, lusts for her hand’s relief.
“My, you expertly do that! More please!”
“Yep, well, I try,” she agrees.

She (He craves this dose of hand-jive.)
is teasing (“Jack ’til it blows!” is his cry.)
stones. (He craves whatever her hand can supply.)
She’s teasing stones and eliciting moans, stroking pin and spheres. (My! My!)

What transports as she trifles, petting him, messing ’round!
Lifting his schmeckie from hiding hair,
handling his bone and his floppy fat pair,
she plays ’round. He sighs and feels fuzzy, addled his brain has grown.
“My goods she pleases when bought,” says he.
“I wish she’d do it for free!”

She (He never does it himself.)
is teasing (Never gets off without help.)
stones (She tugs his hard-on then sets it aside.)
She’s teased his stones and she’s diddled his bone, then says “Lend an ear …” (Buy! Buy!)

Blithely yawning, “Your dime is up,” she says, “for today.
Pay me some more if you want to get laid …
deal was a hand job for what you paid.”

She (Cupping his doodads and shlong)
is giving (She hopes to draw him along.)
none. (“Hon, think what fun some more money can buy.”)
Fun she’s supplied but he’ll not get inside pinching pennies here. (Bye, bye!)

She’s teased his stones, poor guy!


_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Seeing Forty Skinnydippers Under Lights
(Track 7)

Forty skinnydippers under lights
(bare!) will do a show tonight, a fantasy!.
The men are hung, the gals all bear
weighty mams, a dangling pair—what a scene:
Floating sin! An orgy! Booty! Tatas!
Flashing views! All togless, unattired!
“Hip-hip-hooray!” you will say, as talent unfurls.

Some celibates may dis the play
our horny fans emphatic’ly appreciate.
The skin that’s shown enhances things--
the players’ flights and frolickings are all first-rate.
Lesser plays some say are too demure but
here seductions will be sexy and fun—
intercourse without remorse doesn’t appall.

[instrumental interlude]

Ten men begin with twenty chicks.
Persistent, they perform some tricks that will astound.
When blistered mates can’t penetrate
then come the other ten who wait (they’ve stuck around).
Never-ending fun, our presentation
for one thin dime’s the one to see, don’t stall …
come out tonight, don’t be tight, drop one in the till.


_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _



Within You Without You
(Track 8)

[intro]

Eating raw fish
no doubt will make you green and all
nearby people
should hide themselves behind a wall
from the sushi
that is brimming, soon
to come up the way
it went down today.

Eating raw fish
(like trout or roughy served too rare)
will rewind what
has been ingested, so don’t dare.
If you just
skip that stuff
you can save a hurl,
miss a moaning spew.

You may feel some uncooked eel is no big deal,
steel yourself to save your meal,
but then find the line too long reach the loo in time
and what’s within you lands without you.

[lengthy instrumental interlude]

Eating raw fish
I know brings vomit, so I’ve told
many people “Refrain! You’ll hurl those sushi rolls,
chunks you’ll blow,
pay with heaves.”
Are you one of them?

When sashimi spawns a belch
then you will find close behind bait reappears,
and you’ll whine for Tums® to stem that eaten chum’s flood tide
e’re what’s within you lands without you.


_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _



Scenes In Flicks Hardcore
(Track 9)

I should’ve told her, just to be fair,
just exactly how
I earn all my millions but that gal of mine
certainly would call me a swine.
Lettin’ that out’s not smart b’cause she’d
be rocked to the core
knowing I make these millions for flaky
scenes in flicks hardcore.

Screwing goats in zoos,
pandas, giraffes, and birds,
wearing leather suits.

I can act randy when I’m with gnus,
wrens, bob-whites, and fawns,
too, and wear a teddy while I’m wired astride
sundry horny gophers, besides
screwing a donkey, fish of all breeds,
woodchucks, whales and more,
but I’m uneasy lest my gal see these
scenes in flicks hardcore.

I’ve become a talent of some wattage in these wild delights,
but I think it’s clear
she’d call them depraved
and chilled become t’ward me, never trust again.

Pinning a shoat or topping a hind,
mating with a ewe,
intimate with mice, rut with a green blue jay,
porn done every possible way--
if all my fans are clamoring “More!”
she whom I adore
soon would release me if she should see these
scenes in flicks hardcore.

Whoo!


_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Love me, Rita
(Trac 10)

Ahhhhhhh!

“Love me, Rita,” Peter says.
“Love me, Rita,” Peter says.

“Love me, Rita,” Peter says,
“Tho’ there’s a screen between us,
I’m standing stark, now bl*w me hard all day!”

Standing in the dark is Peter
pining for a glimpse of Rita
pulling on his picket. Oh, he’d quite like to look
thru’ the glory hole. If bolder
Peter’d kneel and thus behold her,
maybe look a little with his willy in hand.

“Love me, Rita,” Peter says,
“Fill my desire completely ..
let’s make a deal in which you peel for me!

Rita!

[interlude]

Schnook, he blows an extra tenner
after shaft withdrawal when her
offer comes to let him really see her bare-skinned.
What a thrill, but Pete’s deflated
when he notes that Rita’s “bladed”:
“Sh*t, I didn’t know you were a mister. Boo-hoo!”

Oh, leave me, Rita,” Peter says,
“Now that I know about you,
I need a drink whene’er I think of you.”

“Leave me, Rita,” Peter says.
“Leave me, Rita,” Peter says.
“Leave me, Rita,” Peter says.

[fade]


_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Go Porning! Go Porning!
(Track 11)

Go porning! Go porning! Go porning!
Go porning! Go porning!

Looking for MILFs or teenage sylphs? Follow Google
to “Cyberpimps” and buy a glimpse, don’t be frugal!
Video thrills or sequenced stills …
Like those B-K ads say, “Have it your way!”
Go porning! Go porning! Go porning!

See guys or girls with girls or guys, all the combos
prone or supine performing fine mating mambos.

You can watch a group of any number.
You can lamp a lass love a cucumber
Rather than a dude with massive lumber
who’ll later have his way when she’s a-slumber.

Bondage appeal? Fat your ideal? Tats arousing?
Trannies or ’toons? For “maize monsoons” d’you dig dowsing?
Pan-ethnic mix your fav’rite kicks?
Like those B-K ads say, “Have it your way!”
Go porning! Go porning! Go porning!

[instrumental interlude]

Knowing that for ev’ry thing there’s a season,
Cyberpimp’s content is omni-pleasin’.
Buy a password now and get the keys in.
Why hesitate? There is no reason!

Call the cost “pills for E. D. ills” — tax deduction!
Enter the site, yield with delight to seduction.
Come in and watch and stroke your crotch.
Like those B-K ads say, “Have it your way!”
Go porning! Go porning! Go porning!
Go porning! Go porning! Go porning!
Go porning! Go porning! Go porning!

[repeat, fading into sound effects]


_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _



Tired of Schelppin’ Phony “Parton Cans” (Reprise)
(Track 12)

I’m tired of schleppin’ phony “Parton cans,”
I only want the toys I grow.
Tired of schleppin’ phony “Parton cans,”
I opt to see the extra go.
Tired of schleppin’ phony,
tired of schleppin’ phony,
tired of schleppin’ phony,
tired of schleppin’ phony,
tired of schleppin’ phony “Parton cans,”
I’m likin’ that my mams are “minned.”
I’m tired of schleppin’ tonnage (sewn-in phony “Parton cans”)
I’ll never want a pair again.
Tired of schleppin’ phony
Tired of schleppin’ phony
Tired of schleppin’ phony “Parton cans!”


_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _



A Day in the Write
(Track 13)

I got enthused one day—Oh, boy!—
about this puckish plan now waiting grades.
I hope few parodies are bad,
that none are thought too naff,
and some may make folks laugh.

’Tis true, this kind of fun’s a lark.
It’s just a hobby writing rearranged
(oft bawdy) lyrics to be shared.
Maybe today one more …
tho’ I’m feeling insecure that I’ll run out sound-matched words.

And what a thrill today—Oh, boy!—
to be so near the end, just one song more
(this album-ending one, “A Day …”)
When amirighters look
I’ll be on the hook.
I hope this earns few ones.

[Chaotic orchestral crescendo]

Choked up, and feelin’ dread,
gaggin’, “Oh, m’God!” I said.
“Now, when raters there are ranking stuff,
a look’s enough to notice mine is dreck.” (Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!)
Mounting ones from “amirats”
made me cuss: “To hell with that!”
Found nobody cared, ’bout had a stroke,
and then I awoke to find it was a dream.
Ahhhhhhh ...

[orchestral interlude]

Instead, reviews I may enjoy.
I’ll scout the notes that track in from my peers
and hope when votes are tallied, all
are fives and none catcalls—
how else could I know these songs could maybe fill a concert hall?
I hope this earns few ones!