©1990 Andrew Calhoun, recorded on Hope.
I've been in your kitchen, I've been in your halls,
I'll stand in your doorway and sing of my balls;
My balls! My balls!
I'll stand in your doorway and sing of my balls.
Now, I've climbed your tall mountains and crossed your great plains,
I've lassoed your cattle and kicked out their brains,
On the sands of West Texas, where the coyote calls,
I'll stand on your badlands and sing of my balls.
Now, I've swum all your rivers and sailed all your seas,
Picked apples and peaches and harvested peas
In Northern California, where the redwood grow talls,
I'll stand in your hot-tub and sing of my balls.
Now, I've sung at Bar Mitzvahs and other occasions,
On prize-winning floats, and at peace demonstations;
Been compared to Harry Chapin, Lou Reed and Lou Rawls,
I'll stand on your stage and I'll sing of my balls.
Now, I rode with old Hannibal, when he crossed the Alps,
I fought beside Blackhawk, and cut off your scalps;
And with mighty Caesar, who conquered the Gauls,
I'll stand on your windpipe and sing of my balls.
Now, my song is ending, though it's barely begun,
And if I'm not well-heeled, well at least I'm well-hung;
And sometimes in a rainstorm, when the Pontiac stalls,
I'll stand on the roadside and sing of my balls.