Lookit the fireplace!
Look at it go..
Look at it burn like a blimp in the snow.
Throme-ee the frizbee!
Throw me the barn..
Throw me the sense of your musical yarn.
Ee'tup the veggies!
Eat up the fruit..
Eat up the cereal's leftover lute.
Sitt'n the furniture!
Sit with the fruit..
Sit comfortably for a pointless dispute.
Play'n the playground!
Play for an hour..
Play with the monkey that lives in the tower.
Write me some poetry,
Write me some thoughts..
Doesn't have to make sense, just as long's we can waltz.
Pour out the cuttlery,
Pour out the fire,
Give the man back his amusing attire.
End me the universe,
End me the poem,
I canny stop writing and want to go home.
Take me to Spartacus,
Take me to Rome,
Take me to the end of the motherhuggin' poem.
Pach, press continue,
Pach, press it now,
Hark Pach, a musical, fun-loving cow!
I hate the term "Banjo"; I'm Clavi Impaired,
Just because I'm a deity you seem to be scared.
There's naught wrong with Banjos, we're just like you all,
Yet you fear us; our power- you fear we're too tall.
You don't understand us, don't know what it means
to have Clavis and 'Monicas 'ttacking your genes.
Don't wann' be alone, can't you all just accept me,
Just want pineapple gumbo and blue antihistamine.
You know, for my Banjo.
Don't Go Mad.. Go Instrumenthol
Oh deary me what on Earth has been done..
I've provoked instrumentals from another someone..
I Banjo'd another poem, it was quite miserabel,
And now comes along this harmonica named Isabel.
Caught us all by surprise, with it's freaky disguise,
Nonetheless, I digress, 'ti'll get from me no prize,
As a battle is waging 'mongst the 'mentals of funk,
As a simile might, like a Guru of Funk..
This shall not be the end, ye Harmonicabel,
For the Banjo will triumph, and that clavi, he'll fell.
I Felt a Banjo in My Brain
I Felt a Banjo in My Brain
Do you now hear that siren? That's Inspector Von Banjo.
He's a high qual'ty leet and a serious man, Joe.
While the music he played was like fruitness; addictive,
All his music but clavi- where he'd show vindictive.
There was reason behind this insociable mess,
The authority 'sploited, the bendable dress.
Tho' the clavi once friend, he too had spontineity,
He betrayed him, dismayed him, thought that he was a deity.
Their battle raged on, 'twas a 'spute quite uncanny,
Causing ungainly lamposts and 'tut's among many.
So don't be too harsh on our dear old inspector,
He has nothing now but an old toaster projector.
So play that banjo,
That fonky banjo..
It'll help the inspector;
It'll help him to tango.
My keyboard rhymes with nothing..
What's a kwertie? What's a yop?
What's the bollage monkey doing
in the green begotten shop?
And where's my inspiration?
Know I left it here somewhere..
Seems I dropped it in my rectum
and it's fuzzing up my hair..
My modula oblongata's
sending signals to my toes,
I think they need a wash;
the strange sensation in my nose.
My mouse has a third button,
swear it wasn't there before.
It's got nothin' on the laberynth
of teddies on my floor.
Seems there's no idea's fer writin',
in mah fonky room tonight.
Mebbe then tomorrow.
Lo, the cabbage still burns bright.
And the panda's dia-frajim, will be sparkling, tonight..
See once I knew a Banjo,
And his name was, oh say, Banjo,
And he had a funky clavi,
But it didn't make him happy,
'coz the other kids had better things,
Like orange geese with feathered wings,
But Banjo was a smartish lad,
A fine potential scientist mad,
He took the clavi to his lab,
Where he'd write all those funky tabs,
He took some w00tness, lotsa Woi,
Some ub3r pixies'n'clavi boy,
'n mixed 'em all 'till they turned orange,
Looked all shiny and rhymed with orange,
What once looked like a clavi now looked like a santur might,
A far more entertaining instrument to play all night,
So play that santur, that funky santur,
And stop the verti' borehole banter,
So banjo was happy as could be a banjo,
That clavi's got nothin' on pineapple gumbo.
Orange Trousers of Mithalius
The Orange Trousers of Mithalius
Was walking through
A funny hue
Short after threw
a glace at you;
Out of tune.
You wore a hat,
An orange hat,
That's all you wore.
And with your hat,
You legged it pat,
That which I bore.
My trousers gone,
It din' take long,
Was on the loose.
So quickly gone,
The pants I'd on,
A green mongoose.
I chased you quick,
With 'tomic sticks,
me back my prize.
I am too quick,
For your l33t tricks,
I know now
Where you hide.
Chased to your lair,
Messed up my hair,
Was worth the work.
For that's your lair;
That mushroom there,
With orange sporks.
Well fear me now,
You gopher cow,
I must have now,
We 'gauged in combat,
Saw a wombat,
Us to stop.
He stopped the combat,
That wise wombat,
My trouser pot.
I wonder now,
The frikkin' how,
Well once there wawwws'a ban-jo,
And the gopher played it wellll,
Them folks'd gatha mahls around,
To hear the ban-jo tell.
Nah this here was no awdinary,
Ban-jo, no indeeeed,
That ban-jo was the sheriff suh,
Up on that gopher's knee.
Whahll most th'day he'd sit thay,
Jus' cheerin' up the plaaace,
When old town Naaav'n waws in truhble,
That ban-jo'd show 'is face.
Why once fahn day, the sky tuhn'd black,
That clavay, was about,
Them gophers hid behand the banj,
They knew he'd sawd 'im out.
Wellll the ban-jo playd'n'clavi sucked
annn' 'e jus' could naww keep uhhp..
Ann' sooo th'claaavi ranna-way,
Ann' nevah 'gainnn show'd up.
Sooo, thusss b'came the ban-johh,
Which the gopher played, so wellll,
Still folks nah gatha, mahls around,
Ol' clav can gohh t'haellll..
Ah say, woi!
That there'd be Ban Jovi, the Guru of Funk,
He's a qualified guru, musician and monk,
He knows that the days of the clavi have sunk
in the waters where wonderful banjos doth dunk,
See, the clavis are made of some weird kinda gunk,
They're delike the high quality banjos of funk,
And there is only one way to do it now, punk,
'coz yo clavi's banjaxed in a strange looking chunk.
Now all the clavis have is some spiky hair'd lunk,
Yet we have Ban Jovi, the Guru of Funk.