Whinin’ Blues

Music by P. Gramm, lyrics by Slampo

Come here mama
lemme bail you out
Show you what all
the pretty women are talkin’ ‘bout.
There’ll be no crying, there’ll be no boo-hoo
When I demonstrate exactly what I’m gonna do.

That balloon note
you couldn’t tote
Has got you wonderin’
if you’ll stay afloat
But don’t sit there soundin’ surly and cranky
Get out on the floor and shake it like Ben Bernanke!

Y’know this used to be a nation of Ralph Kiners
Now we’re nothing but a Nation of Whiners,
of poopy-diapered piners.
Nothing left of the true hard-liners.

Gas is so high,
electricity too.
They say this Bud
is no longer for you (sniff, sniff).
And that Suburban you’re drivin’ is about to go
the way of the noble red man and the buffalo (bye, bye).

But dry your eyes mama
and let ’er rip
While I hip you
to a new kind of trip.
We’re gonna wrestle that gas-powered leaf blower away from Sr. Jose
And let it blow those whinin’ blues right into the bay.

Spoken, in the manner of Sam Hopkins:
(I wanna blame the Chinese
but I don’t speak their lingo.
Maybe I’ll call the Pope
to arrange a game of bingo.)

Now I hear you moanin’
'bout your 4,000-square-foot home
And your SUV
that’s as big as the Dome.
And what it’s costing to make your 30-mile commute
from the outskirts of Nome.

My advice is to set your thermostat at 110
And wait for the candyman to come ’round again.

Now I gotta leave you baby
But before I go
there’s just one thing I wanna know.
(I heard a man say it
a long time ago.)
What I want you to tell me
is why is it that
we’re the only country in the world
where all our poor people are fat?

We used to be a nation of Ralph Kiners,
Now we’re nothing but a Nation of Whiners,
of poopy-diapered piners.
Not like Y.A. Tittle when he played for the 49ers.