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Well either you're holding your nose At a situation you're ashamed to disclose, Or you're horribly unaware That the scope of this disaster is extraordinaire, Occasioned this time by the wayward son Of a read-my-lips-I'm-lying old son of a gun. You got trouble, my friends, right here. I say, trouble right here in this here city, With a capital "T" And that rhymes with "B" and that stands for Bush. It takes a clear head and a pince-nez To come up with a bonafide excuse for war – Say democracy with theocracy – Not something esoteric like a WMD. People like to fight for things they're thinkin' they believe in, Not something they can't see that likely leaves 'em grievin'. So right off the bat you got trouble. You got trouble right here in this here city, With a capital "T" And that rhymes with "B" and that stands for Botched. Now the reason your kids are lying, Not around, but while hue and crying That retirement plans need fixin', Like the plumbing of Richard Nixon, And insist on contributing their nickels and dimes To the future of Wall Street's most egregious crimes Are the horrible examples they see Of prevaricating here in DC. Where you got a big heap of trouble. I say, trouble right here in this here city, With a capital "T" And that rhymes with "B" And that stands for "Bombs away."
Music & Original Lyric by Meredith Willson To 'Policies - Social Security' |