Source: Horntip Collection - Half-Mind Hymnal 2011

Lyrics

(Take turns leading verses)

There is a bear in the deep dark woods, Yogi, Yogi, There is a bear in the deep dark woods, Yogi, Yogi Bear.

CHORUS (REPEAT PREVIOUS VERSE): Yogi, Yogi Bear, Yogi, Yogi Bear, There is a bear in the deep dark woods, Yogi, Yogi Bear.

Other verses: Yogi has a little friend, Boo-Boo, Boo-Boo Boo-Boo has a girlfriend, Cyndi, Cyndi Yogi has a girlfriend, Suzi, Suzi Cyndi has a shaven snatch, Grizzly, Grizzly Cyndi wears crotchless undies, Teddy, Teddy Cyndi likes it on the ice, Polar, Polar Cyndi gets what she deserves, Pregnant, Pregnant Suzi likes it up the rear, Dirty, Dirty Suzi’s boyfriend has no teeth, Gummi, Gummi Suzi’s snatch it smells like cheese, Camel, Camel Suzi she has great big tits, More than, More than (I can bear) Suzi gets four bits an hour, Jingle, Jingle Cyndi’s tampon has no string, Cotton, Cotton Yogi didn’t use a condom, Daddy, Daddy Boo-Boo likes it upside down, Koala, Koala Boo-Boo has a twelve-inch cock, Cindy’s a lucky bear Boo-Boo’s only three feet tall, Yogi’s a lucky bear Boo-Boo likes it up the butt, Yogi’s a lucky bear Yogi didn’t wipe his butt, Brown, Brown Yogi uses Afro-Sheen, Black, Black Yogi got a case of crabs, Itchy, Itchy Yogi lights Kuwaiti farts, Saddam, Saddam Boo-Boo likes to stroke his tool, Wanker, Wanker Yogi also likes young boys, Poofter, Poofter Song ender: Yogi he has HIV, Dying, Dying …

THE SPOKEN WORD

A Dangerous Place Ballad of Eskimo Nell Farter From Sparta Head Chant Limericks Poetry Man Poem Recitals Shit List Spam Skit Street of the Thousand Assholes Toasts Two Shits of Verona World According to Student Bloopers

A DANGEROUS PLACE

Twas just across the border, On the banks of the Kangaroo, My uncle owned a brothel, And a fucking beauty too. Resting her head in a spunk filled bed, Was Nellie, sucking a roarer, While on the floor, jacked up a whore, Was my uncle, Dan McGraw. Suddenly the lights went out, A shot rang out, A woman screamed, Plop! Her guts fell out, I got out. What a cunt of a place that was.

THE BALLAD OF ESKIMO NELL Dramatic Recitation

Gather round all you whorey, Gather round and hear this story!

When a man grows old and his balls grow cold, And the tip of his tool turns blue, And it bends in the middle Like a one-string fiddle, He can tell you a tale or two.

So pull up a chair and stand me a drink And a tale to you I’ll tell, Of Dead-eye Dick and Mexican Pete, And a harlot named Eskimo Nell.

When Dead-eye Dick and Mexican Pete Go forth in search of fun, It’s Dead-eye Dick that slings the prick, And Mexican Pete the gun.

When Dead-eye Dick and Mexican Pete Are sore, depressed, and sad, It’s always a cunt that bears the brunt, But the shootin’ ain’t so bad.

Now Dead-eye Dick and Mexican Pete Lived down by Dead Man’s Creek, And such was their luck they’d had no fuck For nigh on half a week.

Just a moose or two and a caribou, And a bison cow or so, And for Dead-eye Dick with his kingly wick, The action was mighty slow.

So do or dare this horny pair Set forth for the Rio Grande, Dead-eye Dick with his mighty prick, And Pete with his gun in his hand.

And as they blazed their noisy trail No man their path withstood, And many a bride, her husband’s pride, A pregnant widow stood.

They reached the strand of the Rio Grande At the height of a blazing noon, And to slake their thirst and do their worst, They sought Black Mike’s Saloon.

And as they pushed the great doors wide Both prick and gun flashed free, “According to sex, you bleeding wrecks, You’ll drink or fuck with me.”

They’d heard of the man called Dead-eye Dick, From Maine to Panama, And with scarcely worse than a muttered curse, Those dagos sought the bar.

The girls too knew of his playful ways Down on the Rio Grande, So forty whores pulled down their drawers At Dead-eye Dick’s command.

They saw the fingers of Mexican Pete twitch on the trigger grip, And they didn’t waitat a fearful rate, Those whores began to strip.

Now Dead-eye Dick was breathing quick With lecherous snorts and grunts, Soon forty asses were bared to view, And likewise forty cunts.

Now forty asses and forty cunts, If you can use your wits, And if you’re slick at arithmetic, Makes exactly eighty tits.

Now eighty tits are a gladsome sight For a man with a raging stand, It may be rare in Berkeley Square, But not on the Rio Grande.

Now Dead-eye Dick had bungholed a few On the last preceding night, This he had done just to show his fun, And to whet his appetite.

His phallic limb was in ramming trim As he backed and took a run, He made a dart at the nearest tart, And scored a hole in one.

He bore her to the sawdust floor And there he swived her fine, And though she grinned it put the wind Up the other thirty-nine.

When Dead-eye Dick lets loose his prick He’s got no time to spare, For speed and length combined with strength, He fairly singes hair.

He made a dart at the next spare tart, When into that harlot’s hell Strode a gentle maid who was unafraid, And her name it was Eskimo Nell.

By this time Dick had got his prick Well into number two, When Eskimo Nell let out a yell, She bawled to him, “Hey you!”

He gave a flick of his muscular prick And the girl flew over his head, And he wheeled about with an angry shout, His face and his prick burning red.

She stared our hero up and down, His looks she seemed to decry, With utter scorn she glimpsed the horn That rose from his hairy thigh.

She blew the smoke from her cigarette Over his steaming knob, So utterly beat was Mexican Pete, He failed to do his job.

It was Eskimo Nell who broke the spell, In accents clear and cool, “You cunt-struck shrimp of a Yankee pimp, You call that thing a tool?”

“If this here town can’t take that down,” She sneered to those cowering whores, “Here’s one little cunt can do the stunt, It’s Eskimo Nell’s, not yours.”

She stripped her garments one by one With an air of conscious pride, And as she stood in her womanhood, They saw the great divide.

She seated herself on a table top Where someone had left his glass, With a twitch of her tits she crushed it to bits, Between the cheeks of her ass.

She flexed her knees with supple ease, And spread her legs apart, With a friendly nod to the mangy sod, She gave him the cue to start.

But Dead-eye Dick knew a trick or two, He meant to take his time, And a girl like this was sexual bliss, So he played the pantomime.

He flexed his buttocks to and fro And made his balls inflate, Until they looked like the granite knobs On top of a garden gate.

He blew his anus inside out, His organ increased in size, His mighty prick grew twice as thick, Till it almost reached his eyes.

He polished it up with alcohol And made it steaming hot, To finish the job he sprinkled the knob With a cayenne pepperpot.

Then neither did he take a run Nor did he take a leap, Nor did he stoop, but took a swoop, And a steady forward creep.

With piercing eye he took a sight Along his mighty tool, And the steady grin as he pushed it in, Was calculatedly cool.

Have you seen the giant pistons On the mighty C.P.R., With the driving force of a thousand horse, Well, you know what pistons are,

Or you think you do. But you’ve yet to learn The ins and outs of the trick, Of the work that’s done on a non-stop run By a guy like Dead-eye Dick.

But Eskimo Nell was an infidel, As good as a whole harem, With the strength of ten in her abdomen, And the rock of ages between.

She could take the stream of a lover’s cream Like the flush of a water closet, And she gripped his cock like the Chatsworth lock On the National Safe Deposit.

But Dead-eye Dick would not come quick, He meant to conserve his powers, If he’d a mind he’d grind and grind For a couple of solid hours.

Nell lay for awhile and then with a smile, The grip of her twat grew keener, With a squeeze of her thigh she sucked him dry, Like a brand-new vacuum cleaner.

She performed this trick in a way so slick As to set in complete defiance The basic cause and primary laws That govern sexual science.

She calmly rode through the phallic code Which for years had stood the test, And the ancient rules of the classic schools, In a second or two went West.

And so my friends we come to the end Of copulation’s classic, The effect on Dick was sudden and quick, And akin to an anesthetic.

He fell to the floor and knew no more, His passions extinct and dead, And he did not shout as his tool slipped out, Although it was stripped to a thread.

Then Mexican Pete jumped to his feet To avenge his pal’s affront, With a jarring jolt his blue-nosed Colt, He jammed it up her cunt.

He rammed it up to the trigger grip And fired three times three, But to his surprise she closed her eyes And squealed in ecstasy.

She jumped to her feet with a smile so sweet, “Bully,” she said, “for you. Though I might have guessed that that was the best That you poor pussies could do.”

“When next, my friend, that you intend To sally forth for fun, Buy Dead-eye Dick a sugar stick, And yourself an elephant gun.”

“I’m going back to the frozen North, Where cocks are hard and strong, Back to the land of the frozen stand, Where the nights are six months long.”

“It’s hard as tin when they put it in, In the land where spunk is spunk, Not a trickling stream of lukewarm cream, But a solid frozen chunk.”

“Back to the land where they understand What it means to fornicate, Where even the dead sleep two to a bed And the babies masturbate.”

“Back to the land of the grinding gland, Where the walrus plays with his prong, Where the polar bear wanks off in his lair, That’s where they’ll sing this song.”

“They’ll tell this tale on the Arctic trail, Where the nights are sixty below, Where it’s so damn cold that the Rubbers are sold Wrapped up in a ball of snow.”

“In the valley of death with bated breath That’s where they’ll sing it too, Where the skeletons rattle in sexual battle, And the rotting corpses screw.”

“Back to the land where men are men, Terra Bellicum. And there I’ll spend my worthy end, For the North is calling, ‘Come.’”

So Dead-eye Dick and Mexican Pete Slunk out of the Rio Grande, Dead-eye Dick with his useless prick, And Pete with no gun in his hand.

When a man grows old and his balls grow cold, And the tip of his tool turns blue, And the hole in the middle refuses to piddle, I’d say he was fucked, wouldn’t you?

THE FARTER FROM SPARTA

There was a young farter from Sparta, A really magnificent farter, On the strength of one bean He’d fart “God Save the Queen,” And Beethoven’s Seventh Sonata.

He could vary, with proper persuasion, His fart to suit any occasion. He could fart like a flute, Like a lark, like a lute, This highly fartistic Caucasian.

He could whistle, could warble and hum, By constricting the hole in his bum, And make animal sounds, Or fire artillery rounds, With the force of a field cannon gun.

The fabulous farter from Sparta, Performed at command by Royal Charter, Did Brahms, Grieg and Mozart, For “Piano and Fart,” And for an encore he did Bach’s Toccata.

His repertoire ranged from classics to jazz, He achieved new effects with bubbles of gas. With a good dose of salts He could fart a waltz Or swing it in razzamatazz.

He’s accompanied Oasis and Blur, And done backing music for Cher, Though his style is obscene, It’s been used on big screen, In sound effects on the movie Ben Hur.

He’d fart a gavotte for a starter, And whiffle a fine serenata. He could play on his anus The Coriolanus: Ood, boom, er-tum, tootle, yum tah-dah!

His basso profundo with timbre so rare He rendered quite often, with power to spare. But his great work of art, His fortissimo fart, He saved for the Marche Militaire.

When Sparta’s farter was truly on form, His asshole could outplay a French horn, He’d give all day recitals, With the air from his vitals, After a large plate of leeks and some corn.

This sparkling young farter from Sparta, His fart for no money would barter. He could roar from his rear Any scene from Shakespeare Or Gilbert and Sullivan’s Mikado.

He could imitate jets supersonic, Or play compositions symphonic, He played Handel’s Messiah, He reached top C and higher, But only after a mammoth colonic.

A family size can of baked beans, Could fuel the main movie themes, Star Wars and some westerns, Were most often requested, Though the odour was somewhat obscene.

Spurred on by a very high wager With an envious German named Bager, He’d proceeded to fart The complete oboe part Of a Haydn Octet in B Major.

He could play Holst’s Mars and Uranus, By expelling the air from his anus, He did Copacabana, But his Carmina Burana, Was proclaimed a cantus profanus.

This man with the musical arsehole, Was asked to perform at a castle, He ignited his gas, Near exploded his ass, And the Count cried out “Once more, you rascal!”

One day he was dared to perform The William Tell Overture Storm, But naught could dishearten Our spirited Spartan, For his fart was in wonderful form.

The Count hosted the concert with style, And the queue to get in was a mile, The farter ate leeks, Lived on beans for two weeks, Knowing his farts were on trial.

He practised by farting some tunes, Till his arsehole made sounds like bassoons, Symphonies, sonatas, Serenades and cantatas, And the theme from The Mouse on the Moon.

He played The Ride of The Valkyries, And brought the whole crowd to their knees, Women fainted and screamed, At The Dambusters theme, And The Flight of the Bumblebee.

He farted on feeling quite merry, Did the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies, His farts echoed and swelled, (And so did the smell), And his face went as red as a cherry.

With a smell like a heap of manure, He began the William Tell Overture, They gasped as it started, Cheered the farter from Sparta, And soon they were screaming for more.

It went off in capital style, As he farted it through with a smile, Then, feeling quite jolly, He reached the Finale, Blowing double-stopped farts all the while.

The selection was tough, I admit, But it did not dismay him one bit, Then, with arse thrown aloft He suddenly coughed … And collapsed in a shower of shit.

One mammoth turd blocked up his arse, Around it no fart could be passed, His bowel filled with farts, From his arse to his heart, And inflated his belly with gas.

All at once the poor farter exploded, His expanding bowel overloaded, The room filled with screams, As gas-filled intestines, Rose up to the ceiling and floated,

Like a string of long brown balloons, His innards were strung round the room, The odour was ripe, So the Count lit his pipe, And the whole place went up with a BOOM!

His bunghole was blown back to Sparta, Where they buried the rest of our farter, With a gravestone of turds Inscribed with these words: “To the Fine Art of Farting, A Martyr.”

HEAD CHANT

Head? Who said head? I’ll take some of that! Oooh-rah!

And I did, and it was good, And there was much rejoicing. And then we fucked. We fucked for hours, Uprooting trees, bushes, and flowers. Frightening small children and woodland animals. We fucked with power tools. We fucked like Vikings, with horns on our head.

Head? Who said head? I’ll take some of that! Oooh-rah!