Dear Mister Big-mouth Khadaffy,
We know it makes you happy
If you could see us Americans
A-bowin' to a sheik;
You think that you're so darn bad,
But Uncle Sam is fightin' mad
And we're goin' to grow mushrooms
Right where Libya used to be.
Yeh, we're goin' to send old Rambo's son
And blow your buns to the sun.
That Line of Death's a bluff that you'll regret.
Run your mouth, we'll shut it,
Take your oil and shove it,
Uncle Sam has had enough,
Pluck Khadaffy Duck.
(Quack, Quack, Quack)
You say America's streets
Will be filled with terrorist creeps,
But our jets fly, we ain't afraid of no
Chicken Shiite guerillas;
And though you worried bad
When we flew overhead,
You'll have to admit that air show was a thriller.
By the way there, camel-breath,
Why do't you holler for some help
From your old buddy Khomeini,
Settin' over there on his holy place?
We'll blow his gas away, too.
You don't think we can whup the Shiite outta both you-all?
I don't know what all the fussin's about:
American boys always go to the Gulf on Spring Break.
Beats me how a little itty-bitty country
Can have so many sunny beaches.
You sort-a favor old herds anyway,
'Cause we're going to drop a whopper on you;
You think our Sixth Fleet's bad,
Israel's coming in right behind us,
They heard you boys haven't been circumcised.
We're going to send the Refrigerator over there
And use you for whoopee cushion.