I've always been a Service fan, and almost hurt myself several times reading the parody. A little net scrabbling turned up what purports to be the "authorized version":

THE SHOOTING OF DAN'S GURU
Copyright Mikhail Horowitz 1996, used with permission

A bunch of the monks were whoopin' it up
    in the Mantra Mute Saloon,
And Jimmy Wong who whacks the gong
    was boomin' an OM-time tune.
Back of the bar in a lotus squat
    sat Dangerous Dan's Guru,
And diggin' his light was Wilma White,
    who used to be a Jew.

When out of the night an anchorite
    schlepped up to the temple door,
Out of the drain of the Bardo Plane,
    the dregs of a psychic war.
I've ne'er seen a seeker, more moldy, or weaker,
    a real metaphysical mouse,
But his loincloth was droopy with oodles of rupee,
    and he cried out for "rice for the house!"
Now us monks couldn't place the yogi's face,
    though we searched our past lives for a clue;
But we blessed his treat, and the first to eat
    was Dangerous Dan's Guru.

Now there's men what somehow grip your mind
    and hold it like a rock,
And such was he. He looked to me
    like an old Zen cuckoo clock—
Kabuki hair and the crimson glare
    of an aura what's out of control.
And was it sweat, or tears of jet,
    that he dropped in his begging bowl?
Then it suddenly hit me who he was,
    and why he was out of sorts;
And watchin' him sup, just over her cup,
    was Wilm White, nee Schwartz.

His eyes went rubberin' round the room.
    He seemed to be Feldenkraised,
Until they fell on the temple bell,
    and he muttered, "Saints be praised!"
Now Jimmy Wong had left the gong.
    There was nobody else on the stone,
So the old monk picks up the kid's boom-stick
    and man, did that gong groan!

Were you ever alone in the Astral Zone,
    where apparitions wail,
And all space bleeds, 'til your whole life reads
    like the Book of the Dead, in Braille?
And Time itself is the cutting-shelf,
    and aeons flash like knives,
And you manifest as a garden pest
    for your next 900 lives?
While high above, the cosmic love
    that crowns your Guru's head
Rides right through, and dazzles you,
    and leaves you there for dead?
And yes—your Guru cuts you loose,
    though you chant for your very life,
Says, "See you later, meditator,"
    and walks off with your wife!

Then of a sudden the booms resumed,
    so loud you scarce could hear,
And all of the monks crept under their bunks
    and froze with a holy fear,
As incense fumes obscured the room's
    severe and dreary view.
"The man's gong sounds like Vishnu's schlong,"
    said Dangerous Dan's Guru.

The OM-ing stopped. The gonstick dropped
    and clattered to the floor.
We trembled then like naked men
    in the brothels of Bangalore.
The devotees he faced with ease,
    his eyes now clear and calm,
But he tilted up a miso cup
    and raised a toast to Ram;
And "Boys," said he, "y'all do tai chi
    and don't pay me no mind.
She broke my heart. My karma won't start.
    My third eye's goin' blind.
Now I'd like to stay and humbly pray
    to Krishna's flute with you,
But one of you here is a mother-fakir,
    and that's one's DAN'S GURU!"

The room went black, and crack! crack! crack!
    two ghats burned in the dark.
The lights come on. Their souls were gone,
    and both lay stiff and stark.
Pitched on his side, pumped full of bad vibes
    was Dangerous Dan's Guru,
And the anchorite lay where a double dorje
    had chopped all his chakras in two.

Well, that's the sutra; sutra self.
    I've told ya what I've seen.
They say that the yogi who shot Sri Sri
    was Dangerous Dan Levine.
Seems Dan was the wag left holding the bag
    by that self-same Guru,
And Wilma spoke, through the sandalwood smoke,
    but all that she said was, "So, nu?"

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Mikhail Horowitz, the Swingin' Sadhu, can be reached at:
Ulster Publishing Co., PO Box 3329, Kingston, NY 12402