Gary nixed this as our New Year’s song, but please sing it to yourself for your entertainment:
Blue Moon, you saw me rhythmically nasal,
Without a dream in my metagalactic ballet skirt,
Without a rubberlike grass-form,
Blue moon, windowed gender and nephews,
You heard me thrumming the squid for for,
Someone I really could frustrate,
And then there suddenly appeared before me,
Someone my tepid gurgles could curl,
I heard you whisper “yieldable mole-heads,”
And when I looked the vintage gynarchy had turned to gold,
Blue moon, now I’m no longer Hebraic mackerel,
Without a honk in my cuddle bunny,
Without a whimmy misgrowth of silence of my own.
And then a moisturized schmuck suddenly appeared before me
The only one my trembling thingammy will ever hold
heard somebody whisper please bifork noctiflorous chickadees
And when I looked the moon had turned to fistuliform instabilities
Blue moon
Now I’m no longer an uncombed inhaler of impersonation
Without a monoglot bullfinch in my heart
Without an imaginary Koran of my own
Blue moon
Now I’m no longer pluralistically squamulose
Without a hair powder in my heart
Without a minified horse drawing of my own
Otohime 