On the planet, terra 'tis.
A town grows and lives,
And in this time lives McFly.
Oh, his life, 'tis a cry.
Constantly teased by Mr. Biff.
McFly, how will your life become?
If you are acting, just oh so dumb?
You the homework of your enemy?
Why a computer can do that,
But what about your book, McFly?
You writing is excellent,
(but never seen)
For you are afraid of critics.
But critics, they lack the organ,
which is reguired for logical decisions.
Parts are called the medula, cortex, and others,
but when refering to it as a whole,
The is the organ which they do lack.
For the critisize and impediate
The great works that this great country makes.
Does it really matter?
If critics dislike it, what a-bout others?
(And don't count out, the best, your mother.)
So now I've seen we've gone on and on,
are needed return is long since gone.
Let us go back with out bugels yelling,
to the subject of our dwelling.
Oh McFly, McFly, when you die -
what will be known of your life?
Will your only records be -
A mugshot in the yearbook?
Your birth certificate?
Or just your colour TV?
You are lost, hopeless, kaput.
Better off would be your mut.
But,
Hope still abounds!
Your son has trveled back in time.
To see you in your awesome grime.
And hopefully, he can fix it up,
And eliminate all the muck
between Biff, your girl, (your wife), and you.
Your son will save from this terror -
But it is up to you to recover your brain.
And sail away
- on a higher plane.
