Well, here they come: lines by yards;
I know that we’re gonna be cursed.
Many words will be heard.
He opens his mouth, and out they blurt.

It’s a long yarn, a REAL long yarn,
it’s a long yarn from his maw.
It’s a long yard, it’s a wrong yarn,
it’s a long yarn from his maw.

Once he starts, you can’t paroles-stay;
out they comes, many lame lines.
It might put me in a coma…
wish I had some drugs for my mainline.

It’s a long yard, a REAL long yarn,
it’s a long yarn from his maw.

Out they run; it’s a word tide!

Well I’d like to split from this douche’s bit,
for sure, for sure.
He goes interminably—
it keeps coming, coming, damn!

I should protest with truculence,
but then what will be thought of me?
So I’ll sit here, grin, and bear it
and be dying from ennui.