Canada Wet

Go forth with the consortium
And blow their tiny minds
They cannot rescue Camelot
Their loss will be our finds

The messless, dressless, restless ones
Will sing the song to you
You'll never weather leather drums
With semen, pop, and glue

And if you pop Sir Cops-a-lot
And try to take his pants
He'll strap you into Fabra-wraps
And feed you to the ants

And back among the taxi hacks
With Slammy sammy-tongs
You hear, you fear, you eat their snacks
And sing the Swingy-song

The radio, the Lady low
They slip and flip it on
Its heard by folks in Kokomo
Its heard by Beatle John

The grass, your feet, outlast the heat
Your knees redeem their might
Your legs and joints confess the point
And dance into the night.