Funk King

In a world of diversions and too many choices,
Complaining gets lost in the barnyard of voices,
Pigs there a swealing, chickens a’clucking,
All pleading with horny intentions of

Funk King ruling the world of the dance,
Barnyard intentions waving round in his pants,
I’ve lost my desire to twirl and to twitch,
Because of that brainless son of

A bit ya can see but can’t seem to ignore,
With brainless backbeats his music’s a bore,
Without a melody, devoid of class,
The Funk King looper is a pain in the

Asking me why I show no remorse,
Condemning a person’s musical choice –
Having no tune, just a barnyard of words,
It all just smells like musical turds