The pickle comes in a plastic bag,
The gent comes in a condom.
The bookster sees his muscles sag,
And dreams of amor quondam.

Of once-won hearts, and passions past,
And times that were romantic.
While the Hawkster dreams up new cartoons
To fill his dances frantic.

The Bubster B he turns his pots,
And sells them if he can, oh.
And Janietta strums the lute,
And dreams it's a piano.

Ole Stilly, though, she plants her feet,
She's no romantic yuppie.
She plants her plants, and pickles buys,
And feeds her hungry puppy.

And so each of us does his time,
Pursuing what he'd druther,
And coming by, once in a while,
To pay respects to Mother.