I'm left bereft of any clue
Of how to get through to you.
My detective bag's got holes, you see
And your man from Tacoma, he follows me.

I'm the rudest nudist this side of the Mississippi
You though, must qualify as the lewdest buddhist,
Oh, fuck comparison- this is dippy.

The 200 hurdle was never my specialty.
I'm much to fertile, thou
Musn't let me curdle, now.

They are so quick to anoint you with the laurel wreath,
But when they speak of your morals,
They're decidedly brief.

You can say whatever you want to say,
And not say whatever you don't.
But don't look for me on the inevitable day
That you need me, because see me you won't.