Herman’s I Won't Send Roses
I don't do windows
Or scrub the floor;
No heavy lifting—
My back is sore;
I have my soaps from 10:00
to 2:00,
And at 3:30, I am through.
My morning teatime
Is strictly "me" time.
I use a dustmop,
But never crouch;
So don't go looking
Beneath your couch!
In fact, my opening remark
Was not quite true:
I don't do windows—
Because I don't do poo.
Loesser’s Wonderful Copenhagen
(inspired by a post and comments at Harry Hutton's indescribable blog,
Chase me, ladies, I'm in the cavalry)
Wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen!
There, you can shag a shar-pei;
With your cock, you'll do
Every cockapoo—
With the whippets, have your
way.
In wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen,
A hound is a humpable whore.
So get off your rocks
In a boxer's box,
'Cause in Copenhagen—
Zoö-philandering Copenhagen—
You'll score!
Blake's I'm
Just Wild About Harry
Took my child to see Harry,
And Harry terrified
me:
But not the Centaurs,
Nor Dementors--
That stuff is just C.G.
On Ron, there's five-o'clock
shadow,
And hips on young Hermio-ne;
And dig the pecs on that
Harry--!
They're un-believable,
In-conceivable:
That's what terrifies me!
Schwartz's A
Shine on Your Shoes
When you get gum on your
shoe,
It's a harbinger of your
day,
And you get the uneasy feeling
That nothing 'll go your
way;
So you arrive at your job
In a bit of a browned-off
mood,
Take a look at your bulging
inbox—
And suddenly know you're
screwed.
There are bills (two or three);
And your bank accounts don't
agree;
Folks at the IRS want to
see
You.
So if there's gum on your
shoe,
It's the pleasantest thing
you'll get;
It's the least of the things
you'll sweat
Today.
Herman's Hello, Dolly!
Farewell, Danny's;
It's been swell, Danny's,
But we've read the fateful
writing on the wall.
It's time to close, Danny's;
Goodness knows, Danny's,
It's for certain
That we're hurtin'
At your curtain call.
But Jerry Scott's playin',
So I'm not sayin'
That the Dear Old Gang won't
ever meet again;
No!
We'll pull through, fellas;
Rendezvous somewhere new,
fellas;
Nevertheless, we'll say,
"Remember when . . .?"
* * * *
But Jerry Scott's playin',
So I'm not sayin'
That the Dear Old Gang won't
ever meet again;
No!
Buck the trend, fellas!
Why does it have to end,
fellas?
Though we may part, we part
pro tem!
One of these days, at 2:00
a.m.,
We will look back and say,
"Remember when . . .?"
Livingston's
and Evans's Silver Bells
From November
To December
Comes a season
of mist:
It’s that
Old-Fashioned Secular Christmas.
Tony Danza
Doing Kwănzaa
With a Japanese
twist—
As peculiar as
that may appear.
Infidels,
Infidels!
Screwing up Yule
with a vengeance.
Hear me sing,
“Gimme spring!
Make Christmastime
go away!”
Hamlisch's
One
Fun
(Not that I'm against
it;
Everybody needs
a break)—
Fun:
After you've condensed
it,
How much dam' fun
can you take?!
Three times you
sit through A Chorus Line:
Boom. Boom. Boom.
(You know, it technic'lly
ought to be
"You-know-whom.")
"Fun"
Acted out in lockstep
Turns me to a malcontent—
Someone tell me
where I rent
A stun gun.
Rent—buy;
Either one is peachy.
Gents, my
Sympathy's with
Nietzsche:
WE HATE FUN.
Kern's
Bill
To have an independent
idea
In North Korea
Wastes time—
As anyone can tell
you,
Our Leader
Is downright
Sublime.
He has a rare and
noble mind—
And a face that
recalls a dog's behind.
So He thinks for
us,
Which is why we're
free:
We avoid the fuss
Of democracee.
He's Kim Jong-il:
He gives us all
we need.
His honorable heart
is truly bountiful.
The rank and file
Should thank the
vile
Security Council,
If we must eat
groundsel;
'Cause it's not
His fault
We had to give
up salt
For day-old swill.
We love Him,
Because he always
does
What's good for
Kim Jong-il.
Wrubel's Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah
Slippery mullahs,
slippery ways—
Dog my kittens,
but they're pains in the A's!
Snuff al-Zarqawi?
Everyone brays,
"Infidel Yankees!
Only a phase!"
Will you look
at Tora Bora?
They're in nooks
and crannies,
Shackin' up with
Pakistanis.
Slippery mullahs,
slippery ways—
They will exhaust
us, one of these days.
Harline's High-Diddle-Dee-Dee (an Actor's Life for Me)
George W. Bush
Has lived a life
of cush:
A silver spoon
in his mouth at birth;
A family with a
high net worth;
And now, he's king
of the bloomin' earth—
Now, that's a life
of cush!
George W. Bush
Deserves to get
the push.
He thinks himself
a conquistador
And drags us into
a foreign war,
But can't explain
what the war is for.
Let's give the
guy the push!
George W. Bush
Can osculate my
tush.
It might be you,
or it might be I,
On whom the Government
plans to spy;
But you can bet
that it ain't Dubai.
Well, he can kiss
my tush!
Bart's Food, Glorious Food
Lewd, gory and
crude—
Rap music's foundation.
What used to be
boo'd
Now rates an ovation.
Hip hop on the
Hit Parade;
Rap 24/7.
What vacuous twit
betrayed
Andre Previn?
Lewd, gory and
crude—
That's rap, in
a nutshell.
Song-plugging's
become
One right-in-the-gut
shell.
Here's my diagnosis,
folks:
Pop music is screwed.
It's lewd, gory
and
Rude, sleazy and
Crude, scuzzy and
Screwed.
The Shermans' Hushabye Mountain
Pristine and pure
was Camelback Mountain,
Years ago, when
Phoenix was new;
The nouveau
riche put houses upon it,
Blighting the land
and blocking the view.
The Monk who kneels
on Camelback Mountain
Prayed for years
as hard as he could;
His mute appeals
and silent hosannas
Haven’t achieved
a smidgen of good.
Let's save the
soul of Camelback Mountain:
Meet tonight in
Papago Park;
We'll fire a flare
at Camelback Mountain.
One random spark
Should light up
the dark.
