“Have yourself a Cruddy Covid Christmas”

(New Lyrics for old Songs)

“Have yourself a Cruddy Covid Christmas”

(New Lyrics for old Songs)

By

David Gottfried

SPECIAL NOTE: The formatting rules and procedures on this site are constantly changing (You know the drill: If it ain’t broke, web designers will change something to confuse people). I try to clearly delineate my stanzas, but whether something is single spaced or double spaced is subject to quirks that I have yet to discern.

New lyrics for “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”

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Have yourself a cruddy covid Christmas                                                                          /

Put your masks on tight

From now on

A Kiss fills us with Fright

Have yourself a cruddy covid Christmas

Play with your sex toys

In the morn

We’ll be out of girls and boys

Have yourself a cruddy covid Christmas

Sterile and pristine

Forget the quaffs

Just toast your very next vaccine

Have yourself a cruddy covid Christmas

Stay out in the cold

People indoors

Mean infections oh so bold.

Have yourself a cruddy Covid Christmas

Courtesy of Santa Trump

On this land

He Took a very cosmic  dump

To Be Sung to the Tune of the Hokey Pokey

(A Meditation on the Vulgarity of New York Liberalism)

You Evict a shvatza in Brooklyn, evict a shvatza in the Bronx

You do insider trading

And you vote for Mayor Koch

You do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself about

That's vat it’s all about

You have a house over here, you have a house over there

You have so many houses and you have a good time.

Darling if you're jealous we'll really feel sublime

That's what it’s all about

We live in Great Neck.  We live in Scarsdale

We live so ritzy bitchy and vee dress to the nines

And when ve are faggots we're in Fire Island Pines

That's what it’s all about

We may be doctors.  We may be lawyers

We may be very ordinary millionaire crooks

And when the IRS comes we'll really fix the books

That's what it’s all about

We're so liberal.  We're so progressive

We wear a red ribbon and ve always vote Democratic

We get a lot of gelt for being so bureaucratic

That's what it's all about

We put welfare. The whole family

In oneroom rat traps and get four grand a month in rent

Our bourgeois liberalism is so delightfully bent

That what it’s all about

FROM MOTOWN TO FARAKHAN

(To be sung to the tune of "Stop! In the Name of Love.")

Kill, in the name of Hate and have a holy war

Think it o o ver

I used to be for good race relations 

Even in the sixties conflagrations

But now I'm a real bitch baby 

And I think that peace scene was crazy

So I follow Farakhan

And await my master's plan

Kill, in the name of Hate and have a holy war

Kill, in the name of Hate and have a holy war

Think it o o ver, Think it o o ver

I liked Motown and nice old Hubert Humphrey

The Apollo, ribs and dancing so real free

But the Koran told me that was decadent

And to bow to draconian precedent

Kill, in the name of Hate and have a holy war

Kill, in the name of Hate and have a holy war

Think it o o ver, Think it o o ver

My sequins shimmered on Ed Sullivan's show

All alive like the very, very best blow

But now I wear a somber black shroud

And am a peon in this mad and bad crowd.

Kill, in the name of Hate and have a holy war

Kill, in the name of Hate and have a holy war

Think it o o ver, Think it o o ver

New lyrics to “I Feel Pretty” from WestSide Story

I feel vicious, Oh so vicious, oh so vicious and vicious and mean

With such spleen I shall make such a scene

I am raging and rampaging with waves of cascading hate

And this passion you can never douse or abate

I am evil, and medieval, yes I dream of the rack and the axe

To torture and debaucher you to the max

I am stunning, with a stun gun, that can burn your body to bits

And my war plans rival Clausewitz

So start bowing, and kowtowing, and prostrate yourself to me

Oh Victoria would be green at my jubilee

I am howling, I am glowering, my eyes' glare like Jezebel's gems

And your swords are cut down to their stubby stems

New lyrics for the theme song for Green Acres, a situation comedy from the 1960’s

(Written upon reading that Yasir Arafat’s wife preferred living in Paris)

Suha Arafat’s part (modeled on Eva Gabor’s part):

I want to live in Paris France

I have to go every dance

I am a woman oh so chic

Marvel at my Arab-French mystique

Yasir Arafat:

I sow war in the Wild West

At mayhem, I’m the very best

I’m king of all the terrorists

Keep Paris and its polemicists

Suha Arafat:

I hate Islamic laws on food

It puts me in a foul mood

I want to eat some crème brulee

Don fine minks and waltz and sashay

Yasir Arafat:

Oh Suha I do understand

You require a delicate land

Something apt for a stately queen

Living rich and really quite obscene

Suha Arafat:

Send me money hubbie Arafat

Big fat checks that show some tact

I must indulge in luxury

Being a bitch is simply my destiny

The shows

The blows

Jihad

Pernod

You are my wife

Good bye Paris life

Ramallah we are here

A satire on Hospitals, sung to the tune of “Thanks for the Memories”

We are the hospitals

So checks the codicils

Of all your freaking wills

We'll only send you bills

Oh darling this instills

The terror we love

The nurse adores her fingernail

They move like a snail

Your face is deathly pale

The bread is ghastly stale

You drop your urine pail

The doctors are in the Hamptons

We have infections everywhere

For cleaning we don't care

Microbes  glide through the air

Ready to trap you in their snare

And wreck you beyond repair

Oh darling, that's life

We didn't look at the lab test

But don't be a rotten pest

Although we wrecked you like the rest

Yes you're ruined at our behest

Shout and your're subject to arrest

Oh darling, we're too busy investing

We are bloomingdale's bitches

Adorned with all our riches

We laugh till we're in stitches

And put you in your niches

Which are coffins in the ditches

Oh darling, we want more caviar

David Gottfried, Copyright, 1985 to 2021