All your bags are packed, you’re ready to go;
You’re standing then in the airport;
You wave to all your friends a fond “goodbye.”
Through the line you’re snakin’ it’s early morn;
The agent’s makin’ a face of scorn;
Best hope that you’re not bonesome, and here’s why.

They’ll strip you vicariously—
In that scanner, much to see,
Gropin’ if in there you will not go—
’cause they’re feelin’ up the jet-plane
Flyers: down thighs, back up again.
Ain’t focused on your toe.

So, you might as well let your pants down,
Let ’em drop right to the ground.
You might as well, ’cause they’ll grope your thing.
Every place they go, they’re frisking you,
Might as well just whip it through
The front of your drawers, through that opening.

They’ll grip you voraciously,
Then they’re spanning your wee-wee,
Gropin’ if in scanner you won’t go—
’cause they’re feelin’ up the jet-plane
Flyers: down thighs, back up again.
Ain’t focused on your toe.

If that X-ray time should grieve you,
It’s time for them to frisk you—
More like “frig you,” what some people say.
Keep it down and do not come
As they are encircling the bone. . .
Perhaps it is time for the X-ray!

So, pick up your arms, don’t breathe,
Don’t allow your chest to seethe;
Hold that pose while they take a photo.
Then we’ll see you on the net, plain
As day, your package on display ’n’
Great! folks can’t wait to see the show!