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B. Dolan
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Mr. Buddy Buddy
Say hell to Mister Buddy Buddy
The charlatan; the confidence man,
Half man half mannequin
Living in the closet where the objects are inanimate
Jingling his pockets, Talking money in his sleep
Talking funny like a president, Buddy is a creep.
He studied to be a priest
Now he preaches to the lost toys
Speaking in a soft voice
Sneaky with the altar boys
Ask him what his name is.
He'll tell ya 'Buddy Buddy, heh heh,
no relation.'
The living go to die in the hole where his face is
At the beginning of time
he showed Satan how to shapeshift
Body image issues--
Never seen himself naked
Making money is a hobby but he wants to be famous
He goes antique shopping for Nazi pariphenalia
but Buddy's not a racist
He just loves a good sales pitch
Whichever way the scales tip
You can't knock the hustle
of reaching in your chest
and squeezing that weak muscle...
Mister Buddy Buddy.
Doin the Buddy Buddy.
(x4)
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Say hello to Buddy Buddy
at the scene of the accident.
Master of the fast-pitch bumper sticker magnet
Pump it to the masses
Who snatch it up like addicts
Unsnap the brass latches of alligator suitcase
And pedal pleasant fragments
With new and improved taste
Six million ways to flavor the Kool Aid.
A ripple through his face when the room gets played
Never let a little thing like Truth get in the way...
The music he makes is loop-based
Blooms like a stain
Grows on ya like a rash or a tumor on the brain
Cyanide and toothpaste, the tools of his trade
Pass the laughing gas cuz Buddy is onstage!
A master of the craft
A study in blackface
A series of site gags in utterly bad taste
With a clearance price tag on everything he displays
He gets the fuck outta Dodge ahead of the hurricane...
Nothing remains but destruction in his wake
and bunch of no-buddies
praying for more rain....
Mister Buddy Buddy.
Doin the Buddy Buddy.
(x4)
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