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THE SUN DON'T SHINE OUT YOUR BEHIND

Oh!
The sun don't shine out your behind,
Its winds don't time the tides.
No servants from the palace to fan your heinie pie.

The sun don't shine out your behind,
The clouds don't kiss your tits.
There ain't no silver dollars or stardust in your zits.

The morons at the pool hall might concede you bend some steel,
But don't fester-felch yer merkin, girl:
You ain't that big a deal.

The sun don't shine out your behind,
I'll tell you once again.
Don't be expecting no extravagance from me, my phony friend.

The sun don't shine out your behind,
Your colon don't grow corn.
No fumy coolie thunderclaps to steam our urban morn.

Me angry Polish mistress has been tempered by your smite.
You pudding dropped her carriage, girl.
You didn't have the right!

The sun don't shine out your behind.
The sun don't shine out your behind.

The sun don't shine out your behind,
Nor tan your private parts.
There ain't no hovering angels to pop your bathtub bubble farts.

The sun don't shine out your behind,
The whining wears thin quick.
You fumble with the telly and ignore my pretty dick.

You're flustered by a checkbook,
It's costing me a wad.
Now you're coming home with herpes and expect me to applaud.

The sun don't shine out your behind.
The sun don't shine out your behind.

 

C & P Copyright Chris Giunta 2021

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