Oops! My GUEST moniker in my post above originally ended with "it's too hot for vacation", but the tail end of the phrase dropped off (overridden by the "GUEST," prefix).

Here's my second song:


SIXTEEN SPUDS
(Tune: "Sixteen Tons")

Some people say an astronaut is a stud.
A young man's rocket's made of plastic and spud,
Plastic and spud and bar-be-cues,
A mind that's freaked by the veg it spews.

You load sixteen spuds; what do you get?
They hover way overhead, as steep as a jet.
Say, Steven, won't you call me 'cause I can go
And load your ol' mixer -- up it will soar.

I was born here during Nineteen-Sixty-and-Nine,
Just when Armstrong and Aldrin said, "The moon is all mine."
Now I load sixteen spuds of pure Idaho
Although Norway says, "Don't do that no mo'."

You load sixteen spuds; what do you get?
They hover way overhead, as steep as a jet.
Say, Steven, won't you call me 'cause I can go
And load your ol' mixer -- up it will soar.

I was born for soaring; I'm a little insane.
"Flight", "Wing" and "Hubble" are my middle name.
I was raised south of Oslo by an ol' Viking clan.
Ain't no high too far; I'm an explorin' man.

You load sixteen spuds; what do you get?
They hover way overhead, as steep as a jet.
Say, Steven, won't you call me 'cause I can go
And load your ol' mixer -- up it will soar.

If you see spuds comin', better step inside:
A lot of them julienned, a lot of them fried.
One "first" I'm tryin', no others believe:
In a flight to spud heaven, I will lift-off Steve.

I'll load mixer, but... what does he get?
A hovering mother, then a heap of regret.
Say, Steven, don't you bawl because it can't go:
They're slow; they roll. I've flown mixers before.