On a june night afternoon,
I went out huntin' poon.
Icy tooth filled up with it past the door
All of the pooguls was woo-woo-ing,
Woggy woogles was voodoo-ing.
In walked Ozmo DeBugus,
Zat whippin' prick sure was humungous.
Then all the pooguls wanna tongue us,
a lick for fifteen cents.
So while Ozmo went out looking for a kiss-of-mint pack,
I took out my razor and I stabbed one in the back.
Billowed soft out of the star, did a navigator's star
One that guides nomadic sailors to their ends.
Turn to it's face to cry,
Out of it's mouth it dropped my eyes.
So I lost my bet and maybe my carcass rights.
Ozmo warned that this distraction would just give them satisfaction.
Since poo-gun-zull up some pungo whenever they get action.
Run, run, son to zat of your come.
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