Phombus Pucker. with his big fat grin. his hole in the head. his matter of fact knowledge of zen firecrackers. his little white lies. his visions of sugar plums. his dishwater hands/ Phombus Tucker. with his bulldog wit. his theories on atomic nipples. his beard & his backache/ Bombus Thucker. with his soft boiled stovepipe. his aloneness & aloofness. his hatred for crap/ Longus Bucker. with his numbers & decimals. with his own special originality ...spent hours & hours carving his name in the sand. when all of a sudden, a wave's commotion washed him & his name right into the ocean (ho ho ho)
look, you know i dont wanna come on ungrateful, but that warren report, you know as well as me, just didn't make it. you know. like they might as well have asked some banana salesman from des moines, who was up in toronto on the big day, if he saw anyone around looking suspicious/ or better yet, they just coulda come & asked me what i saw/ the doctors say i gotta tumor coming up tho, so i got more important things to do than to be bothered with straightening out this whole mess ... while you're down there, see if you can get me murph the surf's autograph bye for now your lightingman Sledge