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Way up in the snow, where the scrub oaks grow, and the coneys and the picas play
Where the marmots abound, all a diggin' in the ground, and the wind blows cold all day There's a little pile of stones, on a little pile of bones, that's a what the archaeologists say But the folks in Lake City, well they sing a differnt ditty, it'll like to make yer hair turn grey Now it's kinda hard to find, but it'll altercate yer mind, if ya happen to go the right way You take Slumgullion Pass, an' don't stop fer no gas, until ya git yerself to Al's Cafe It was the genuine original, highly pathological, finger lickin' digital cafe It was Al Packer's legendary, coronary, fast food canibal bar an' buffet Some dark night, you gonna see a wierd light, up on Canibal Plateau they say It's a scrub oak fire, like a funeral pyre, an' old Packer's been a cookin' all day An' when the coyotes howl, and the cougar's on the prowl, they ain't lookin fer yer customary prey Nah they're waitin' fer bones, in a pile of hot stones, at old Al Packer's cafe (Ahhhhhhhh...) Comin' back for more, comin' back for more, baby comin' back for more - Al's Cafe Comin' back for more, comin' back for more, baby comin' back for more Old Al Packer was a real bone cracker, got lost in a blizzard one day When the boys went to get him, old Al just et 'em, and he buried all their bone in the clay Now ya know them fellas wasn't toastin' marshmallows, and they didn't fall asleep in the hay But it'd been a hard winter, so he had 'em all fer dinner, and they didn't find their boots until May Well the folks in Lake City showed very little pity, so they sentenced him to hang next day But before they could noose him, old Al got loose, an' he's a lookin' fer you, today (Boo-Haa-Haa-Haa-Haa) Comin' back for more, comin' back for more, baby comin' back for more - Al's Cafe Comin' back for more, comin' back for more, baby comin' back for more Now way up in the snow, where the scrub oaks grow, and the coneys and the picas play Where the marmots abound, all a diggin' in the ground, and the wind blows cold all day There's a little pile of stones, on a little pile of bones, that's a what the archaeologists say But the folks in lake city, well they sing a differnt ditty, it'll like to make yer hair turn grey Now it's kinda hard to find, but it'll altercate yer mind, if ya happen to go the right way You take Slumgullion Pass, an' don't stop fer no gas, until ya git yerself to Al's Cafe It was the genuine original, highly pathological, finger lickin' digital cafe It was Al Packer's legendary, culinary, fast food canibal bar an' buffet Some dark night, you gonna see a wierd light, up on Canibal Plateau they say (Boo-Haa-Haa-Haa-Haa) It's a scrub oak fire, like a funeral pyre, an' old Packer's been a cookin' all day An' when the coyotes howl, and the cougar's on the prowl, they ain't lookin fer yer customary prey (Oww-Wah-Wah-Wah-Wah-Wah) {A Coyote yipping} Nah they're waitin' fer bones, in a pile of hot stones, at old Al Packer's cafe (Bwhaaaah) {The sound of the Technicolor Yawn} |
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Written and maintained by: Miles A. Lumbard
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