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A sickness most foul has come upon me,
It happened when I was still young.
With just a word, the symptoms occurred,
Diarrhea of mouth that is sung.
New rules around eating they had to be made,
No singing when dinner is served.
A good little boy I tried to obey,
But
tapioca was mentioned, I had to observe, that . . .
I know a song about that,
I know a song about that,
Singing in the middle of our chat
’cause I know a song about that.
My parents it seems, did the best that they could,
To train those songs right out of me.
To be triggered so strongly, with only one word,
They said that it just shouldn’t be.
But when my friend looks through the window and points
Out the feline-shaped roadkill they see.
The lyrical sickness it seizes on me,
And I sing me some sweet Kenefsky, cause . . .
I know a song about that,
I know a song about that,
Singing in the middle of our chat
’cause I know a song about that.
This sickness it really has stolen my life,
Even
elevators are not safe for me.
For when I stand inside those up-and-down boxes,
I’m stuck by not one song, but three.
It makes it quite hard to converse with my friends,
When any sentence could send me to song.
Cats,
language, and
space ships, Medusa, and
dragons,
Knowing filk songs I’ll never talk long. Cause. . . .
I know a song about that,
I know a song about that,
Singing in the middle of our chat
’cause I know a song about that.
I know a song about that,
I know a song about that,
Singing in the middle of our chat
’cause I know a song about that.