I’m almost an adult. I’ve earned the right to whine.
Seems all I do is sit around and wait.
Just a little latitude would suit me fine;
He confines me to a place I hate.
Place I hate. Hope it’s not too late.

Gotta show the fellas I’m no shrinking violet.
Gotta get my license, be a fighter pilot.
Gonna leave this planet with its dreary gloom.
Lookin’ for space and freedom to zoom!
Gonna hang onto this new hope.
How can I ditch this cranky old dope?

Uncle Owen
Is a podunk and provincial pain.
I’ll go clean the droids,
But I’m annoyed
‘Cause I’ve got converters on the brain.

Uncle Owen!
He’s a grumpy, domineering guy,
And it’s hardly grand
To work his land
When my heart is set upon the sky.

Tatooine is nothing but bland,
Just a rock full of womp rats and sand.

So when I claim,
“Blech! I hate this farming game,”
I’m also saying,
“You cramp my style, Uncle Owen.
Uncle Owen, you’re lame!”

Uncle Owen!
Can’t believe he ever was a teen. (Uncle Owen!)
Now he always bores
And doles out chores
‘Cause he’s dull and dusty, and he’s mean!

Uncle Owen
Only thinks of mouths he has to feed,
And unlike Aunt Beru,
He has no clue
That adventure’s what I really need.

This isn’t the life I have planned.
Oh, no! Any day now, I’m taking a stand.
Gotta fly, gotta fly, gotta fly,
Gotta fly, gotta fly, gotta fly...

So when I claim,
“Blech! I hate this farming game,”
I’m also saying,
“You cramp my style, Uncle Owen.
Uncle Owen, you are lame!”

Uncle Owen, Uncle Owen, Uncle Owen, Uncle Owen...

Tatooine is nothing but bland,
Just a rock full of womp rats and sand.

And when I claim,
“Blech! I hate this farming game,”
I’m also saying,
“You cramp my style, Uncle Owen.
Uncle Owen,
You’re lame! I’m ticked, and you’re to blame!”
Uncle Owen!
Blech!