Flakey Like A Biscuit

The cover art from my upcoming CD. I figure even if the music sucks, someone might buy it because they’re hungry. (Image from evil shenanigans dot com)

After a brief inventory of my life, I came to the realization that I’ve never written a top-40 song.  Technically, I’ve never actually written a bottom-40 song either.  With apologies to actual songwriters everywhere, and to my long-time follower, the fabulous yet M.I.A. FreddyFlow, I offer my first attempt at songwriting since having my heart broken in 7th grade.  (Please disregard the fact that I’m a middle-aged, lily-white suburbanite and just accept the fact that anyone with basic cable has access to both MTV and re-runs of “The Fresh Prince of Bel Air”)

-:-

You so damn fine,

Playin handball in my mind,

You been runnin laps-es,

All up in my synapses,

-:-

Went three blocks out my way,

Just watchin how you sway,

Girl then we got to talkin’,

Once you finally finished walkin’,

-:-

I listened for a minute,

N I quickly reached my limit,

I think you better go back,

N take another Prozac,

-:-

You look as hot as Tempe,

But yo pretty skull is empty,

You might look fine to Hef,

Got me wishin’ I was deaf,

-:-

(Chorus)

Flakey like a biscuit, a bis-cuit, a bis-cuit,

Flakey like a biscuit – every time I hear you speak,

Aint no amount of butter,

Can cover what you utter,

You flakey like a biscuit and that aint no way to be,

-:-

I’m-a leave you standin’ here,

Get some cotton for my ears,

Don’t need no selfish chatter,

All up in my gray matter,

-:-

You make a sexy picture,

But your brain is like a mixture,

It might be two parts moon rays,

N five more parts of cray-cray,

-:-

Got a ego like The Donald,

Suck attention like a funnel,

When your ruby lips start movin’,

Your appearance stops improvin’,

-:-

(Chorus)

Flakey like a biscuit, a bis-cuit, a bis-cuit,

Flakey like a biscuit every time I hear you speak,

Aint no amount of butter,

Can cover what you utter,

Flakey like a biscuit and that aint no way to be,

-:-

Dr. Phil don’t want no part,

Of your nasty, mangled heart,

There aint no magic tonic,

Can cure a true moronic,

-:-

You like a box from Russell Stover,

Filled with turds from my dog Rover,

Lookin’ fine that candy shell,

Chewy center – nasty smell,

-:-

Aint too deep inside yo mind,

No diving please, you break yo spine,

Need no lifeguard on the side,

Shallow here – my socks are dry,

-:-

(Chorus)

Flakey like a biscuit, a bis-cuit, a bis-cuit,

Flakey like a biscuit – every time I hear you speak,

Aint no amount of butter,

Can cover what you utter,

You flakey like a biscuit and that aint no way to be