A lot of “modern” music has the singin’ so unbearable
With ev’ry station on the cable full o’ bull, not blareable
I once saw Wings; oh: Linda; what I thought was, “Yikes, how boo-able”
Her wailin’ on; the *vid was *doo; she made it quite unviewable

Death metal, well, I hate that too; the grunting, so demonical
I cannot stand Madonna, with the costume that’s all conical
For *nowt, Bon Jovi, I’ll jeer ‘em; I’m fuming: they do not amuse
(Spoken line)
Ooh, lot o’ boos, lot o’ boos…hate ‘em!
(Resume singing)
So many tuneless acts about; I swear a lot; oh, what a ruse

(So many toneless tracks about; unfair: the rot; I’ll not a-choose)
(So many brainless *whacks about; their *air is hot, though lotta views)
(So, modern music lacks a clout; beware: a lot o’ rotten *grot *accrues)

Not very good is “Need a Girl”, for Diddy, he don’t tickle us
An’ now that Gary Glitter shames, him being’s jus’ ridickle-us
Up short: the records from the cable; full o’ bull, not blareable
A lot of “modern” music has the singin’ so unbearable

(Up short: the records from the cable; full o’ bull, not yeah-able)
(A lot of “modern” music has the singin’ so un-air-able)

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Why some dig rap’s a mystery; Snoop Dogg is bland, an’ Diddy, dull
They’re like retarded crackheads; how I’d love to see a Fiddy cull
I viewed an Eminem act: all the rhymes with none o’ the sobbiness
But lyrics that are poor; unduly idolized for gobbiness

“Can…you tell I’m wasted”, Macca yells, “From *blowin’ *J’s of *Lebanese”
His “Mull”: the joke’ll bore us, as will “Frogs” an’ Wonder’s “Ebonies”
I’d like to dumb a tuneless witch: I’ve heard the Yoko’s din *afore
(Spoken line)
Ooh, din: a chore; din: a chore…horrid!
(Resume singing)
I bristle at her *airs; it made me chuck ‘em in the bin afore

(Can’t whistle to her wares because they suck, an’ they’re a din, I’m sure)
(Her hiss’ll give you scares because it’s yuck, an’ it’s a din, an’ bore)
(Won’t listen to her airs because I stuck ‘em in the bin a min afore)

I look so white; I’m feeling ill; a stabbiness behind a rib
It may be indigestion, but it’s burnin’ like a kinda *squib
I’m short o’ breath, an’ song unable; have to slow: the smarter *tack
This song is not a *doddle; I’m about to have a heart attack

(I’m short o’ breath but should be able: have a go, this part o’ track)
(It now should be a doddle, but they had to give my heart a whack)

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I’m *hacked when I hear Engel-Dinck; his “My Marie” is fickle *cack
An’ when I *shell for shite: I bought a CD by that Nickelback
Them gimmick pairs, like *Orville and his voice man, make me really sick
And when I hear that Britney, what I think is, “Boy, she’s really thick”

Now I have burnt my LP’s by the Rod, for he went “Sailing”-y
That Ono bore an’ crack chicks, such as Whitney, are too wailing-y
*N Sync were awful; just a thing of monumental *twattery
(Spoken line)
Ooh, I say, what a horrid racket; twattery, that; ha, ha, ha, ha…hate it!
(Resume singing)
I’d say a lot of “modern” singin’ is assault an’ battery

(I hate a lot of modern singers, so I’m short on flattery)
(Don’t rate a lot of modern blingers; they’re not short on brattery)
(I say they’re not all model *zingers; it’s a sort of bitter battery)

Now to Little Jimmy Osmond; he was sucky in capacity
He wasn’t in bros’ act, so they were showing some sagacity
At two, upon my hate ‘em table, adamant it’s Adam Ant
At one, the yappy rappin’, or a sappy techno miscreant

(It’s true, they got my hate ‘em label; at an Ant, I had a rant)
(No fun: the *pappy rappin’; so for crappy dreck, no diss recant)