Only humorist to rewrite Hova without rap cred
No byline on these rhymes; they’re compiled herein, herein, herein…
This is anti falsetto, death of the baritone, this ain’t for eunuchs, not for castratos,
This is rock lobster, not the opera, papas, mamas (preferably Mama Cass who can sing contralto)
This ain’t politically correct, this might hinder polyphonic arrangements,
My tunes don’t have crazy high parts, high fits and starts make you sound like you’re mastering dark arts, ahh
No lily gilding, I’ll wall-of-sound it myself—I’m Brill Building!
I know you like pained facial expressions, but your singles are suggesting Victorian sexual repression
Learn some new chord progressions, take it an octave down and grow a set, man.
Yeah, low register inviolate, this is death of baritone, moment of silence.
This ain’t an AM gold record, this is aural onslaught from a screechy heckler,
I made it just for Prince and The-Dream, ‘cause you’re out scarin’ the dickens
With your Tiny Tim-ming, from tip to toe everybody cringing, you whinging,
Your lead vox too light, vocal cords too tight, you emote too trite
I might fake bass for a nice feint, you can’t fake when you bel canto-trained
This ain’t for Roy Orbison, Lou Christie, Superfly, E.L.O. with Jeff Lynne,
(Rest in peace) Mike Jackson and Van Halen pre-thrillin’
Yeah, male pitch shit inviolate, death of baritone, moment of silence.
This might need rebut from a Bee-Gee, I might hear back from blue-eyed soul Doobie,
Get that guy from the Darkness to talk on this, tell him to coax down that dude from Passion Pit,
Not worth it to opine on this, but I don’t want producers to greenlight this,
You crooners mooning too much, get back to earth you Four Season-ing too much.
I’m a nasal tenor range so how is it I’m still the deepest here,
I don’t lay in the backing track while cracking about how my voice broke in choir in sixth grade
That sounds childish to me, if you’re a bari this is how you prove it to me.
Yeah, this sec’s inviolate, this death of baritone moment of silence.