Lose Thyselves

The clock rang aloud with a glorious chime. I looked up above. “Would you look at the time?” The hour at hand is pointed at nine, soon to reclaim this kingdom of mine.

This kingdom of mine, A phrase so fine For lo, in my head This bad king is dead And it’s I alone Who ascends to the throne,

While you suckers hitchhike home! Back to your mommy, tell her you’re sick in your tummy. You’re nervous, sweaty, and pale, have some ginger ale.

And they did just so, with their bags in tow, which contained nothing but salad dressing. Why they had dressing they did not know, but on their way to the chateau, the bottles broke and they began distressing.

Their palms sweaty, knees weak, arms heavy, vomit on their sweaters already, macaroni and cheese so fine, drunk out of their minds as they cry over bottles of spilled dressing and wine. “Not the Hidden Valley!” one did cry out, as the others went about and gave a huge shout.

At this point the legions of fans—many of them tattooed with these very lyrics on their bodies—rushed the stage, lifting their huge hero onto their tiny shoulders. Before the real frenzy began, they waited patiently for the final lyric: "lose yourselves, my tiny Christmas elves."