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Well I heard a lovely rumor, |
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That Bette Midler had a tumor, |
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So gleefully I went to tell my friends. |
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But they said it was a lie, |
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That she wasn't going to die, |
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"And by the way, have we got news for you!" |
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And they told me that the man |
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That I had always known as "Dad", |
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Hadn't met my "Mum" when I was born. |
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And they reckon that I am, |
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But I hope to God I'm not, |
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The bastard son of Dean Friedman, |
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The bastard son of Dean Friedman. |
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And my school-work fell behind |
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With this bombshell on my mind. |
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Me art teacher said he understood. |
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But he could only sympathise |
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With the sadness in my eyes, |
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Even though he'd shown my his Magerite! |
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And in the "Corridors of Fear" |
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I would shed a lonely tear, |
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As ridicule flew at me from both sides. |
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And they mocked me in my mocks, |
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And embroidered in my socks, |
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The bastard son of Dean Friedman, |
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The bastard son of Dean Friedman. |
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Supercalifragilistic Borussia Moenchen Gladbach |
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And you can thank your lucky stars that you're not |
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The bastard son of Dean Friedman, |
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The bastard son of Dean Friedman. |
