You Can't Do That On Stage Anymore Sampler

Roy?: Eeee!
FZ: All right, there's a green Chevy, license number 650 BN in Barry's lot. Gotta move it. I repeat, there is a green Chevy, license number 650 BN in Barry's lot.
Guy #1: There's a '54 out there too, Frank.
FZ: There's a what?
Guy #1: A '54.
FZ: There's a '54 what?
Guy #1: A '54 what?
Guy #2: Did you announce the action burgers?
Guy #3: Action burgers . . . !
Guy #1: It's a Ford-uhhhh . . .
FZ: Please, do yourself a favor and move your short before somebody takes it away. They're serving burgers in the back! If you go for burgers, you'll love the burgers here. They have some burgers in this place, when you open 'em up, y'know . . . you hold 'em like this, and go way in the back where nobody can see you. Some people eat them that way.
Guy #4: Take 'em back to Philadelphia, Frank!
FZ: What?
Guy #4: Philadelphia!
FZ: What about Philadelphia?
Guy #4: Cream cheese.
FZ: That's it . . .

FZ: Now, if you'll analyze what we're playing here, if you use your ear and listen, you can learn something about music, y'see? "Louie Louie" is the same as the other song with one extra note, see? . . . They're, they're very closely related and they mean just about the same thing.

Plastic people
You gotta go
(Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah)

Plastic people
You gotta go-UH!

A fine little girl
She waits for me
She's as plastic
As she can be
She paints her face
With plastic goo
And wrecks her hair
With some shampoo

Plastic people
You gotta go-UH

Plastic people
You gotta go
(Sure gonna miss ya)

Take a day
And walk around
Watch the nazis
Run your town
Then go home
And check yourself
You think we're singing
'Bout someone else . . . but you're

Plastic people
You gotta go
(Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah)

Plastic people
You gotta go

Three nights and days
I walk the streets
This town is full
Of plastic creeps
Their shoes are brown
To match their suits
They got no balls
They got no roots . . . because they're

Plastic people
You gotta go
(Sure gonna miss ya, bop, bop, bop)

Plastic people
You gotta go

Me see a neon
Moon above
I searched for years
And found no love
I'm sure that love
Will never be
A product of
Plasticity

Flies all green 'n buzzin'
In his dungeon of despair
Prisoners grumble and piss their clothes
And scratch their matted hair
A tiny light from a window hole
A hundred yards away
Is all they ever get to know
About the regular life in the day

An' it stinks so bad the stones been chokin'
'N weepin' greenish drops
In the room where the giant fire puffer works
'N the torture never stops
The torture never stops
The torture
The torture
The torture never stops

Slime 'n rot, rats 'n snot
'N vomit on the floor
Fifty ugly soldiers, man
Holdin' spears by the iron door
Knives 'n spikes 'n guns 'n the likes
Of every tool of pain
An' a sinister midget with a bucket an' a mop
A sinister midget with a bucket an' a mop
A sinister midget with a bucket an' a mop
Where the blood goes down the drain

An' it stinks so bad the stones been chokin'
'N weepin' greenish drops
In the room where the giant fire puffer works
'N the torture never stops
The torture never stops
The torture
The torture
The torture never stops

Flies all green 'n buzzin'
In his dungeon of despair
An evil prince eats a steamin' pig
In a chamber right near there
He eats the snouts 'n the trotters first
The loins 'n the groins is soon dispersed
His carvin' style is well rehearsed
He stands and shouts
All men be cursed
All men be cursed
All men be cursed
All men be cursed
And disagree
Hey, nobody would disagree with him!
No-one durst
He's the best of course of all the worst
(He's the best of course of all the worst)
Some wrong been done, he done it first
(Some wrong been done, he done it first)

An' he stinks so bad, his bones been chokin'
'N weepin' greenish drops
In the night of the iron sausage
Where the torture never stops
The torture never stops
The torture
The torture
The torture never stops
Torture time now!

Flies all green 'n buzzin'
In his dungeon of despair
Who are all these people
That he's locked away down there
Are they crazy?
Are they sainted?
Are they zeros someone painted?
Well, it's never been explained
Since at first it was created
But a dungeon just like a sin
Requires naught but lockin' in
Of everything that's ever been
Look at her
Look at him
That's what's the deal we're dealing in
That's what's the deal we're dealing in
That's what's the deal we're dealing in
That's what's the deal we're dealing in

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!

Guy In The Audience: "Whipping Post"!
FZ: Say that again please.
Guy In The Audience: "Whipping Post"!
FZ: "Whipping Post"? Ok, just a second . . . (Do you know that?) Oh sorry, we don't know that one. Anything else? Hum me a few bars of it, please, just show me how it goes, please. Just sing, sing me "Whipping Post" and then maybe we'll play it with you.
Guy In The Audience: Ooh-ooh-ooh . . .
FZ: Thank you very much. And now . . . Judging from the way you sang it, it must be a John Cage composition, right? Here we go, "Montana." One, two, one, two, three, four . . .

I might be movin' to . . .

FZ: Hold it! Hold it! We can't possibly start the song off like that! Good God! That's inexcusable! What happened to you last night?
Napoleon: George has a tape of it.
FZ: George has a tape of it? Okay, we'll use that in the second show. Ready? "Montana" . . . Wait a minute, "Whipping Post." No, "Montana." One, two, one, two, three, four . . .

FZ: It's too fast for you? One, two, one, two, three, four . . .

I might be movin' to Helsinki soon
Just to raise me up a crop of
Dental Floss

Raisin' it up
Waxen it down
Tying it to the Whipping Post
In the middle of town

But by myself I wouldn't
Have no boss
'Cause I'd be raisin' my lonely
Whipping Post

Raisin' my lonely
Whipping Post
Raisin' my lonely
Whipping Post

(Well) Well I just might grow me some thongs
But I'd leave the heavy stuff
To somebody else
How 'bout Chester?
And then I would

Get a person
Tie him up
To the Whipping Post
And beat the living shit out of him
So that guy in the audience was satisfied

But by myself I wouldn't
Have no boss
'Cause I'd be raisin' my lonely
Whipping Post Floss

Movin' to Montana soon (well . . . )
Gonna be a Dental Floss tycoon
(How unique!)
(Whip! Whip!)
Movin' to Montana soon (now . . . )
Gonna be a mennil-toss flykune
(Yes, it's such a ballad at this tempo)

Napoleon: Little booger-bear . . . Boogers everywhere . . .
FZ: And now for the thrilling conclusion of that song . . .

Ike: Well well well, now, dis de nasty sucker dat be respondable fo de en-whiffment o' de origumal potium. Now, in his infinate respondable party personaged as THE EVIL PRINCE, and through de magik o' stage-kraft of course, we's about to see what gwine on in his magikal conjurance up of his lil' cauldrom o' doom! Now check it on out now . . .

Somewhere, over there, I can tell, (I guess so)
There's a voice of
A potato-headed whatchamacallit (Whoo, do tell!)
Who does not wish me well!

His clothes are quite stupid,
And also his shoes! (Ain't no biznis like show biznis)
He's got a big ol' duck-mouth!
(Who knows how he chews!)

He thinks he knows something
About THE GREAT PLAN!
How ULTIMATE BLANDNESS
Must RULE and COMMAND

He knows not a drop,
Not a crumb,
Not a whit,
Of the reason for doing
This criminal shit
And then, if he did,
Would it matter a bit?
Not at all!
Because IT IS WRIT:

Our BEIGE-BLANDISH GOD
Tends to CERTIFY IT:

"Only the boring and bland shall survive!
Only the lamest of lameness will thrive!"
Take it or leave it, you won't be alive,
If you are overtly CREATIVE!

Fairies and faggots and queers are
'CREATIVE'
All the best music on Broadway is
'NATIVE'

Who will step forward
And end all this trouble?
For beige-blandish citizens,
Clutching the rubble
Of vanishing dreams
Of wimpish amusement,
Replaced by a rash
Of 'CREATIVE' confusement!

Soon, my brave Zombies,
You'll make your return!
Broadway will glow!
Broadway will burn!
(Along with the remnants of
EVERYTHING NEW)
My HOLY DISEASE will do
Wonders for you!
Those lovely producers
Who paid for you 'then'
Will do it again, and again, and again!

The spying potato (the spying potato!)
With horrible diction (that terrible diction!)
Will rot in the garbage (I can smell it right now!)
When this show's eviction
Takes place shortly after
My alternate skill
Of THEATRICAL SABOTAGE
Triumphs YOUR will!

I've a special review
(Yes I know you really do)
I've been saving for years
(Yes I know you really have)
For a show just like this,
(For a really stupid show)
With POTATOES and QUEERS

I'll say it's disgusting, atrocious, and dull
I'll say it makes boils inside of your skull
I'll say it's the worst-of-the-worst of the year,
No wind down the plain, and it's hard on your ear
I'll say it's the work of an infantile mind
I'll say that it's tasteless, and that you will find
A better excuse to spend money or time
At a Tupper-Ware Party,
So, do be a smarty!
Hold on to that dollar
A little while longer
For spending it here,
Why, it couldn't be wronger!

WHAT'S HAPPENED TO BROADWAY?
WHERE'S IT GONE, ALL THE GLITTER?
THE 'HEART' AND 'SOUL'
THE PATTER?
THE PITTER?

And after this deadly review hits the paper,
In will come ROPER, BENDER & RAPER,
To legally exercute all that remains
Of this tragic amusement for drug-addled brains

Hold on to that g-string
A little while longer
For bending it here,
Why, it couldn't be wronger!

WHAT'S HAPPENED TO BROADWAY?
WHERE'S IT GONE, ALL THE GLITTER?
THE 'HEART' AND 'SOUL'
THE PATTER?
THE PITTER?

And after this deadly review hits the paper,
In will come ROPER, BENDER & RAPER,
To legally execute all that remains
Of this tragic amusement for drug-addled brains
Hey hey, hey hey, hey hey, brai-hains . . .

 

FZ: Okay, ladies and gentlemen, my son Dweezil!
Ike: The Dweeze!
FZ: Dweezil is going to play the guitar solo on a song from the Them Or Us album, called "Sharleena."
Ike: Huh!

Battlestar: Galactica?

Everybody!

I'm cryin'
I'm cryin'
Cryin' for Sharleena
Can't you see?
I called up all my baby's friends
'N ask'n um
Where she done went
("Jungle Boogie"?)
But nobody 'round here seems to know
Where my Sharleena's been
Where my Sharleena's been

Ten long years I've been lovin' her
Ten long years
And I thought deep down in my heart
She was mine
Ten long years I've been lovin' her
Ten long years
I would call her my baby, and now
I'm always cryin'

I would be so delighted
(The Dweeze!)
(I would be)
I would be so delighted
(Yes, I would be)
If they would just
Send her on home to me

I would be so delighted
(I . . . )
I would be so delighted
(Yes, I would be)
If they would just
Send her on home to me

Send my baby home to me
Send my baby home to me
Send my baby home to me
Send my baby home to . . . me

Well right about that time, people
A fur trapper
Who was strictly from commercial
(Strictly Commershil)
Had the unmedicated audacity to jump up from behind my igyaloo
(Peek-a-boo)
And he started in to whippin' on my fav'rite baby seal
With a lead-filled snow shoe . . .
([...])

With a lead
(Lead)
Filled
(Lead-filled)
With a lead-filled snow shoe
(Snow shoe)
He said Peak-a-boo
(Peek-a-boo)

With a lead
(Lead)
Filled
(Lead-filled)
With a lead-filled snow shoe
(Snow Shoe)
He said Peak-a-boo
(Butzis too)
(Peek-a-boo)

He went right up side the head of my favorite baby seal
Hit him on the nose, that's right
Hit him on the fin, yes
He went WHAP!
An' that got me just about as evil
As an Eskimo boy can be

So I bent down 'n I reached down 'n I scooped down
An' I gathered up a generous mitten full of the deadly
(Yellow Snow)
The deadly Yellow Snow from right there where the huskies go
(Over by Butzis' room)
An' then I proceeded to rub it all into his beady little eyes
With a vigorous circular motion
Hitherto unknown to the citizens of Canarsie
But destined to take the place of The Mud Shark
In your mythology
The vigorous Circular Motion
Here it goes, rub it!
(Hey!)
(Hey!)
(Hey!)

FZ: All right, now this is the really exciting part of the show. This is the part I always like the best, because this is where I get to find out what you guys are made of. And you gals, too. This is the part where we have, we are purported to have, audience participation. Now, I know it's a matinee, and y'know, you're probably in a hurry to go get something to eat, but I figure that this little audience participation that we're gonna do right now is so totally stupid that it's, well just think of it as an aperitivo, y'know what I mean? So, okay, everybody, stand up. Stand up now. All right, that's very good. Okay, a lot of you people are still sitting down, no, don't walk forward, just stand up. Stand where you are. Okay, is everybody standing up? Well, most of you are standing up. Okay, the ones who aren't standing up, hey, eat chain. Enforced recreation, live on stage in London. Now, we're gonna do away with the fur trapper now, the guy's been hittin' my baby seal quite a bit, baby seal doesn't look too good. Bleeding from the mouth and rectum, looks terminal. So what we're gonna do, is we're altogether gonna jump up and down this son of a bitch, now watch me. I'll do the stupid thing first, and then you shy people follow. Ready? Here we go.

FZ: Hi, are you okay?
Angus: Fine.
FZ: I know . . .
Angus: I love you.
Ike: Relative of Joey Psychotic.
FZ: Hello, how ya doin'?
Angus: Can I come up 'n recite a poem?
FZ: No, but I'll tell you what, you can stay there and recite a poem. Here, what's your name? I'll hold it, it's okay, it might break.
Angus: Angus O'Riley O'Patrick McGinty.
FZ: Don't hold it.
Denny?: Joey Narcotic.
Angus: Angus O'Riley O'Patrick McGinty.
FZ: Wanna recite your, uh, poem now?
Angus: Yeah . . .

Angus:
Burnt wind
Heart stinks
Charred man
Burns
Squirm screeing

FZ: Is there more?

Angus:
Pain!

(Yes!)

FZ: Very essential. And now . . . thank you! All right, now, as if, as if that weren't enough, watch this. I'm going to do something completely stupid and then after I demonstrate the stupidity of it all you're gonna do the same thing and that will sort of bind us together in some sort of cosmic, hands across the water, kind of symbolic, kind of . . . just forget it. Okay? Here we go, watch this . . .
Denny: It's Jumbo.
FZ: It's Jumbo, that's right.
Denny: Jumbo, come back!

Now, you pounce
And you pounce again
Jump up 'n down on the chest of a . . .
Great Googly-Moogly

FZ: You're gonna do it too, now. Hey, wasn't that really stupid?
Ike: Sure that isn't 'bounce'?
FZ: Okay, tonight, though, we're, we're adding a new dimension to this. When we get to the fast part, when you jump up and down on the chest of a, we're gonna vamp for an extra coupla bars, now this is very important, bring the band on down behind me, boys, so they can understand this, when the band plays very quietly after we jump up and down on the chest of a, everybody's gonna recite a poem! What do you say? Okay? And I'm gonna be listening. No mistakes. Ready? Now, everybody jumps.

Now you pounce
You pounce again
You jump up 'n down on the chest of a, and recite a poem . . .

FZ: Wait, wait a minute, wait a minute, I think I like the poem better than the jumping. More poetry, please!

Two Guys From The Audience:
Rotten gulls beating
With large rubber sails!
Who cares?
Now it is light!

FZ:
Alone in the hissing laboratory of his wishes, Mr. Pugh minces among bad vats and jeroboams, spinneys of murdering herbs, and prepares to compound for Mrs. Pugh a venomous porridge hitherto unknown to toxicologists which will scald and viper through her till her ears fall off like figs, her toes grow big and black as balloons, and steam comes screaming out of her navel.

(Cakes! Cakes! Cakes!)

FZ: Now, listen. The f— Sit down. The fur trapper was pretty fucked up. He had just been stomped upon and recited to by the entire contents of this audience. And you know what that can do to a guy who's wearing a, a parka. So he gets up . . .

And looks around
And looks around
And looks around again
And then he says . . .
(And you can sing along if you know the words)

I can't see
(No no no no no . . . Yeah!)
I can't see
(No no no no no)
I can't see
(No no no no no)
I can't see
(No no no no no)

He took a dog-doo sno-cone
An' stuffed it in my right eye
He took a dog-doo sno-cone
An' stuffed it in my other eye
An' the huskie wee-wee, I mean the doggie wee-wee
Has blinded me
An', Great Googly-Moogly, I can't see
Temporarily
(This is really stupid, isn't it?)

Well, it was at that time that the fur trapper
Remembered the ancient Eskimo legend
Wherein it is written
On whatever it is that they write it on up there
That if anything bad ever happens to your eyes
As a result of
Enforced Recreation Live Onstage In London
The only way that you can get it fixed up
Is to go trudgin' across the tundra
Mile after mile
Trudgin' across the tundra
Right down to the parish of Saint Alfonzo
(What, another poem?)

Guy #1:
I want a garden
I want a garden where the flowers have no flowers
I want a garden where the trees have no leaves
I want a garden where the tree— weeds don't even grow
I want a garden
I want my garden
I want a garden where there are no colors
I want to water that garden
I'll garden that with my tears
Whilst that garden
Busted trees
Busted leaves
Water me with my own

FZ: Sounds like a bunch of cakes for me.
Denny: Oh, you want kindergarten.
Guy #1: Hah-hah . . .
Band Member: Denny strikes!
FZ: Not bad, not bad. What's, what's the title of that?
Guy #1: "Broadmoor."
FZ: "Broadmoor"! All right. Warren, do you know one called "LeFrak City"? Where's, where's Butzis?
Ike: Probably somewhere bendin' over.
FZ: Where is he? Are you . . . Send Malkin up here . . . Uh . . .
Band Member: He's probably gettin' a hand job.
FZ: Yeah, I know, that's just what I was thinking! Ha ha . . . He's in the lobby getting a blow job. All right, sorry, maybe next show, we'll find him. One of these days we'll get him up here. Now, some of you people are probably not very religious, and one could hardly blame you. However, those of you who are religious, and who have been paying money into the church for years and years and are still waiting to get your money's worth, here's a little bit of information for ya (I don't know what you're gonna do with this information, but . . . ), Saint Alfonzo is, and probably will continue to be, for the duration of this show, the patron saint of the smelt fishermen of Portuguese extraction. Do you know what Portuguese extraction is? Very good. Anyway, in order that you may reach a higher level of conciousness, which is obviously the aim of our show, Ed Mann, who has been working on this little lick all afternoon, Ed, who only, he's, he's not sick, he only has bad mental health, Ed is going to play The Big Alfonzo Motif, let's hear it for him!

(The Main Conversation)
(whistling)
Wha . . .
Mark: Can I just ask some, any, everybody here, did anybody see me puke on stage?
Howard: No, did you?
Mark: I puked on stage.
Howard: You puked on stage?
Mark: I did, man. I was sin— right in the middle of singin' "Easy Meat" or somethin', an' all of a sudden I started pukin' outta my mouth an' I just put my hand over my mouth, an' I had . . .
Howard: Ohhhh . . .
Aynsley: You didn't get it on film?
Howard: Outta sight!
Aynsley: Get that in slow motion, it'd spew [...]
Mark: I thought you guys all caught that, man. I got really sick when we were all jumpin' around and stuff . . . an' all that scotch and wine. Which is weird, I only did it for about a second, y'know?
Aynsley: Oh!
Mark: It was just like a little spew. I kinda shoved it back down my throat and went on singin'.
FZ: Great.
Howard: Phew . . . Man, that is strange, man.
?: Yeah, it is.
Howard: Ratso Rizzo.
FZ: He saved it because he might be hungry later.
Howard: Eewwww . . . get the big pieces!

(The Other Conversation)
Guy: What are you doin', tourin' the country?
Jeff: Yeah. We started with San Antonio last night. Miami, then Tallahassee tonight, Orlando, and then Jacksonville tomorrow, and then we're doin' New York. We have a few days off. We have about ten days off [...].
Guy: That's a nice way to play. [...] pretty good.
Jeff: My name's Jeff.
Guy: Ah, it's not important who I am. California?
Jeff: L.A., man.
?: How's it going?

FZ: Once upon a time, way back a long time ago, when the universe consisted of nothing more elaborate than Mark Volman . . .

Mark: Oh, thank you, Frank. And don't misspell it, that's not Marc Bolan, that's Mark Volman. Hiya, friends! I wanna welcome each and every one of you, I wanna say to you tonight, I feel great. I mean, I feel great! Everywhere I go people are always coming up to me, and they say, "Mark . . . Mark, Mark."

Group: Mark! Mark! Mark!

Mark: "Mark, are you kidding?" Let me tell you this, friends, I am not kidding. I mean, I am portly, and I am maroon. Well, how many people here tonight can guess what I am?

FZ: I . . . don't.

Howard: I can't guess what you are.

Jim: Not me.

Mark: Well, then I'll give you some clues. And the first clue is, I am portly. Does that help?

FZ: Not much.

Howard: No, I don't know who you are.

Mark: Okay, I got one. Clue number two, I am double knit. That helped?

FZ: No, not much.

Howard: What do you mean?

Mark: Well then I have to give you one more clue, I know this is gonna give it away and I hate like damn to tell you this, but clue number three, Ich bin Maroon.

Group: Ahhhh . . .

Howard: You're a Sofa!

FZ: Way back a long time ago, when the universe consisted of nothing more elaborate than Mark Volman . . .

Mark: Thank you, Frank.

FZ: Trying to convince each and every member of this extremely hip audience here tonight that he was nothing more, nothing less, than a fat, maroon sofa, suspended in the midst of a great emptiness, a light shined down from Heaven. And there he was, ladies and gentlemen, the Good Lord, and he took a, he took a look at the sofa, and he said to himself, "Quite an attractive sofa. This sofa could be commercial."

Mark: Thank you, Frank, hiya friends.

FZ: "With a few more margaritas and the right company. However, I digress. What this sofa needs," said the Big G., "is a bit of flooring underneath of it." And so, in order to make this construction project possible, he summoned the assistance of the Celestial Corps of Engineers and, by means of a cute little song in the German language, which is the way he talks whenever it's heavy business, the Good Lord went something like this. Take it away, Jim Pons . . .

Jim:
Gib zu mir etwas Fußbodenbelag

Mark: Hey!

Jim:
Unter diesen fetten, fließenden Sofa

Howard: Everybody!

Jim & Group:
Gib zu mir etwas Fußbodenbelag
Unter diesen fetten, fließenden Sofa

FZ: And of course, ladies and gentlemen, that means, "Give unto me a bit of flooring under this fat, floating sofa." And sure enough, boards of oak appeared throughout the emptiness as far as vision permits, stretching all the way from Belfast to Bognor Regis. And the Lord put aside his huge cigar and proceeded to deliver unto the charming maroonish sofa the bulk of his message, with the assistance of a small electric clarinet, and it went something like this . . .

Bidet!
(Sport shirt)
BLOOOW-JOB
Jambon
(Corn-hole!)
(Sport shirt!)
Bidet!
(Corn . . . hole)
Jambon
BLOOOW-JOB
(Corn-hole!)
Bidet!
(Sport shirt)
Bidet!
(Sport shirt, sport shirt, sport shirt, sport shirt)
Bidet!

OOO-AHH!!

Bidet!
Bidet, bidet, bidet, bidet, bidet, bidet, bidet, bidet, bi . . .
(Corn-hole . . . corn-hole . . . )
(Sport shirt, sport shirt, sport shirt, sport shirt, sport shirt . . .)
BLOW-JOB! BLOW-JOB! BLOW-JOB!
Jambon, jambon, jambon, jambon . . .

(Couchon . . . )

Bidet! Bidet!
(Sport shirt, sport shirt)
Cooooorn-HOOOOLE!

Ed:
Thank you
Oh thank you, you're really too kind
Thank you, thank you so much
Thank you, thank you
Blow-job!

FZ: Ed Mann, ladies and gentlemen!

Oui!
Avec oui, oui

One 'n one is eleven!
Two 'n two is twenty-two!
Won't somebody kindly tell me,
What the government's tryin' t' do . . .
Dickie's just too tricky
For a chump like me to use
Well, you'd take that sub-committee serious, boy
You might get a seizure from the evenin' news

Well, yeah, yeah,
Millions 'n millions of dollars . . .
Much as he might need . . .
He could open up a chain of motels, people,
On the highway, yes indeed!
Quadrophonic desperation!
You know, there'd be a cable all under your bed
Well, if you just might break some wind in your slumber
The FBI is gonna get your number

GONNA GET YA
GONNA GET YA
GONNA JUMP UP THE SUB-COMMITTEE AND GET YA!

Gonna get your number
The FBI
Gonna get your number
The FBI
Gonna get your number
The FBI
Gonna get your number
The FBI
Done got your number
The FBI
Done got your number
The FBI
Gonna get your number
The FBI
Gonna get your number
Gonna get your number
Gonna get your number

Tryin' not to worry
Tryin' not to care
But you know, I get delighted
When some microphone's not there
Can't have no private conversations
Nowhere
In the USA
Can't wait 'til the rest of the people all over the world
Find out that their government
Is just the same ol' way
Yeah, every day . . .

Well . . .
Let me tell you one thing right now
Let me tell you one thing right here
Let me make this perfectly clear
Let me tell you 'bout this right here
You know you put me in office
So you must have wanted me in office
I've did you no harm
You know I'm not a crook
You know I'm innocent
I had twenty-five tapes
I only have ten
I don't know what happened to the rest
Musta gave 'em to a friends
Owned Loaned a couple of to Bebe Rebozo (Bozo!)
Owned Loaned a couple of to Pat Boone (Boone!)
Owned Loaned a couple of to Ronald Reagan (Reagan!)
And owned loaned a couple of to the new vice-president
He said if the old must diehe'd be on my side
He said he'd stand by me through thick 'n thin
[...] impeachmentUntil they impeach me
And he said he'd never know let 'em
He said he'd never let him 'em do it
I said, "I believe you"
I said, "Hold down"
I said, "I never cheated on ya (cheat!)
I've never lied"
We know you're not a crook
We know you're not a crook
All we wanna say is one more thing now . . .

The gangster stepped right up,
Kissed him on the lip good-bye
Made him a cock-sucker by proxy, yes he did,
An' he didn't even bat an eye!
The man in the White House—oh!
He's got a conscience—oh!
He's got a conscience as black as sin!
There's just one thing I wanna know—
How'd that asshole ever manage to get in?

FZ: Here it comes, ladies and gentlemen, sing right along . . .

The Mystery Man came over
An' he said, "I'm outa-site!"
He said, for a nominal service charge
I could reach nervonna t'nite
If I was ready, willing 'n able
To pay him his regular fee
He would drop all the rest of his pressing affairs
And devote His Attention to me
But I said . . .

Look here brother
Who you jivin' with that Cosmik Debris?
(Now what kind of a Masked Man are you anyway?)
Look here brother
Don't you waste your time on me

The Mystery Man got nervous
An' he sorta fidget around a bit
He reached in the pocket of his Mystery Robe
An' he whipped out a shaving kit
Now, I thought it was a razor
An' a can of foamin' goo
But he told me right then when the top popped open
There was nothin' his box won't do
With the oil of Hi-Yo, Silver
An' the dust of the Grand Wazoo
He said, "You might not believe this, Tonto
But it'll fix up that war-paint for you too!"
An' I said . . .

Look here brother
(Thank you, Masked Man, thank you!)
Who you jivin' with that Cosmik Debris?
(Ah! Masked Man's a fag!)
Look here brother
Don't you waste your time on me

I've got troubles of my own, I said
An' you can't help me out
So take your meditations an' your preparations
An' cram it up yer snout
"BUT I GOT A SILVER BOL!," he said
An' held it on up to his horse
So I snatched it
All away from him
An' I showed him how to do it right, of course

I wrapped a newspaper 'round my head
So I'd look like I was Deep
I said some Mumbo Jumbos then
I told him he was goin' to sleep
I robbed his rings
An' his pocket watch
An' everything else I found
I had that sucker/swami hypnotized
He couldn't even make a sound
(Where'd you get those beautiful . . . ?)
I proceeded to tell him his future then
As long as he was hanging around, I said
"The price of pyjamas has just gone up
An' that ol' swami have just gone down"
(Uh-oh!)

Look here swami
Who you jivin' with that Cosmik Debris?
(Now is that a real poncho or is that a Seattle poncho?
Who can tell anymore?)
Don't you know
You could make more money in syndication,
So don't you waste your trap on me
(Don't Sri Chin, don't Sri Chinmoy on me)
(Ohm swami, ohm swami, ohm swami-ohm)