The petunias jeer and whistle
At your little pipsqueak of a house
Knucklehead, get outta bed
And face the day your knuckleheaded way
Poor, poor knucklehead
Throw away them fancy books you read
They're what makes you think you're dead
My poor, poor knucklehead
Of all the knuckleheaded things to do
Of all the knuckleheaded things to say
My poor, poor knucklehead
You haven't said or done a single one all day
bu*terflies don't wear boxing gloves
To clobber all the ones you love
Poor, poor knucklehead
Is that why your little Mrs. lives under the bed?
Holding her breath and playing dead?
Your brittle little Mrs. made of gingerbread
Poor, poor knucklehead
Can I buy you a brand-new feather bed
Can I roll you to the circus
And shoot you from a cannon
In that brand-new feather bed?
The old tick-tocker
Starts to crackle
A whole new knucklehead
In a brand-new feather bed
Such a lucky knucklehead
Such a lucky, lucky knucklehead
Such a lucky knucklehead
Such a lucky, lucky knucklehead