"If
they were any worse, they would probably qualify for government assistance.
That said, I kind of like this in a sick sort of way." -- George Snuffleupogus (host of "This (is) Weak")
OTC (by Harland DeWitt, James DeWitt, and Brent Seaks)
James
DeWitt - vocals, guitar Harland DeWitt - vocals, harmonicas Bill Walter - bass
I
was leaning over you down in Pensacola Soothing my throat on a fresh Ricola® Chugged too fast on a Coca-Cola® And spit it up and your areola
Whether
it's a syrup, a tablet, or drop Phlegm's still better than a romance flop Sometimes life can be a downer When you mix romance With over the counter
Reminds
me of when I used to be pre-med Combined Drixoral® with some Sudafed® Could not sleep so I made love to you instead Found out later it was really your sofa bed
I
thought it was over, but we met once more But I'd just got acquainted with some Vicks [Formula]
44® I was inattentive, rather a bore Right up to the point where my face hit the floor
In
cooking class we were having fun You leaned over and I saw your buns I fell in love right on the spot With those buns how could I not?
When
we dated your buns got better I wrote about them all in a letter Soon everybody wanted a piece But your yeast ain't for lease The only thing better than hot buns Is some sticky buns, if you know what I mean
You
came over you came alone Into the kitchen, next to the phone You add the butter, I'll add the meat It will knock you off you feet
Oh,
baby stop, stop for my sake You know I can't stand it when your buns shake If they start sagging like a bundt cake I'll keep squeezing 'til they're back in shape
Harland
DeWitt - all instruments Brent Seaks - vocals Leslie Wills - vocals Darren Britt - "Hot!"
Maggie
Brown, fifteen years and my love's still around I wanna give you a double serving Of all the love you've been deserving
From
potatoes au gratin to chicken friend steak There's nothing you could give me That I wouldn't take Government subsidized or not You always managed to keep it hot
Hours
and hours I stood in the line But for Maggie I didn't mind A hearty "What else?" would always proceed All of the food groups my body would need
Decked
out in white Your hair in a net
That
is a sight I will never forget If there's such a thing as an angel on earth I found her serving taters for all she's worth
James
DeWitt - vocals, guitar Leslie Wills - vocals Harland DeWitt - drums Sean Davis - maracas
Well,
I'm stuck in the middle of a train station I'm stuck in the middle of a train station Only ten minutes more but I'm tired of waitin' Said I'm stuck in the middle of a train station And I'm thinking about you Thinking about you
Well,
let's take a little walk down the railroad track Think about it later if we wanna come back She's done you some wrong she's done you no good You've got to take a walk you know that you should And a train goes by
Well,
I'm stuck in the middle of a train station And I'm writing you a postcard from a train station Postcards don't allow for much information So I'm writing you this song from a train station And I'm thinking about you Thinking about you
I'll
be sitting in the middle of a train Loungin' in the dining car I'll go far Headed down that westbound track Think about it later if I want to come back
In
Atlanta for the weekend why not ride the MARTA Grab a bag of Doritos® and dream of Gabe Kotter Feel the train a-rockin', put the motion to a tune Oh there's nothin' better than a Sunday afternoon
Up
in San Francisco, hooked up with the trolley Ghirardelli's® fills me up as I ponder Ziegfried's
Follies It's my stop already, cable car starts to swoon Holy Rice-a-Roni® it's a Sunday afternoon This afternoon
Man,
it's hot in Dallas, crammed inside the DART Sticking Bugles® on my fingers, give J.R. my regards I'm a human sandwich better get off soon Nothing comes after Saturday like Sunday afternoon
When
across the pond, be sure to take the Tube Figuring out the Underground's like solving Rubik's
Cube® Hey, there's the queen gonna shoot her my moon Oh, there's nothin' better than a Sunday afternoon
James
DeWitt - vocals, guitars Bill Walter - bass Harland DeWitt - drums
I
work with you I love you
By
the fax machine Of all that I can dream is faxing you To my home fax machine So I can have you All the time on my hard drive
A
perverted song Yes indeed that is true But so is my love So is my love for you honey It's as true as you parlez vous francais
Pass
the Wite-out® please Not to erase this song but for me, honey To get you out of my mind I must spread this All over your cheeks and tummy
Well,
I always knew you were something special But I never knew you were such an intellectual You're so fine and you're mine I walk the line Please be true I love you, Peggy Sue
Office
supplies, nasty guys coming around to see you Why don't you get a clue I'm the one who needs you When the quittin' whistle blows
Too
many people going down in the city tonite Too many people going down so they can feel alright Too many street cleaning machines Too many drivers falling asleep at the wheel Too many drivers on the telephone They don't know what's gonna happen when they come
and go
Down,
down onto the street They going down, down onto the street They going down, down, down, down, down, down below
This
city means more to me than any other political subdivision
does
Too
many people throwing up on themselves tonite Too many people, they're walking back home They don't feel alright They throwing up, up, up on themselves They won't be happy when they wake up in the morning But they'll do it all again next weekend You can be sure of that my furry friend
It's
Monday morning, the people coming down They're going to work, most of them wear a frown They don't like what they're doing But I'll tell you a thing…(improv.)
Turn It Up (an itty-bitty bit) (by Harland
DeWitt and James DeWitt)
Harland
DeWitt - vocals, programs James DeWitt - vocals, guitars Bill Walter - bass Todd Redilla - drums
Riding
coach but there ain't no coaches We are the dons of Magic Kingdom® come To the east coast phonies we say buenas noches Fry your ass up just like a Steak-umm® Preachin' hate to sell your records If you're so holy then you tell me why We dig your groove but not your message The money's in the bank and your thumb's in the pie
Riding
bitch but there ain't no bitches You used to funk it up with the coyotes in the hills Hey, west coast phonies what is this? Now you junk it up so you can pay your yacht bill Your red hot chili is cold gazpacho Don't you know you lost your soul I remember when your crime was funky and macho When you stopped singing "On the Toilet Bowl"
We're
here to chart a new course The revolution is about to begin Like Lance Armstrong in a Tour de Force So shake your neighbor's hand and give him a grin Friends and neighbors come on outside Let it be known that there ain't no danger The Dude-buggy's passin' for a musical drive-by We're as cute and cuddly as a babe in a manger
Can
you turn it up an itty-bitty bit? I'm the dude in the room and I rock the shee-ot Can you turn it up an itty-bitty bit? I'm the dude in the room and I rock the shee-ot
We're
here to chart a new course Residudes are rockin' in the living room A sort of band in a Tour de Force Dissin' sell-outs and promoters of gloom Taking back Christmas for little Susie Who Human Genome®, did they ask this G? No. Carrying the torch for Bad Mutha Goose 'Cause we're the boom in the room and we rock the
shee-ot
