We used to play electro-punk,
Then tried out zydeco-funk.
But none of these things got us signed.
Another genre we did find!
We did an image overhaul,
And donned some dirty overalls.
We lifted from Neil Young’s “Harvest.”
Let’s go into a gang chorus:
Hey hey hi-yi hey-oh!
Ki-yi-yi yippee yi yay-oh!
Stomp your feet and yell oh ho!
That’s the way these songs all go!
We found a guy who played great fiddle.
And dabbled in washboards a little.
But he would not grow a beard.
Our interest in him disappeared.
We sing of backroads and old barns,
And spin our country bumpkin yarns.
Except that we all met at Choate.
But – hey, to some that’s quite remote.