My best friend went out for a chemical peel
on a beautiful midsummer day.
She never came home. Disappeared off the earth;
overdid it, I guess, in some way.

I drove my car down to the Luxury Wash.
"No Harsh Chemicals Used", read the sign.
They rinsed all the paint off along with the dirt,
and said: "Too bad. Don't hold up the line."

I took my dog in for a clip and a cut,
and a tick dip, her bites so to cure.
She dissolved in the bath; they apologized later:
"It happens. So sorry, I'm sure."

I sent for the Chemical Gardener Boys
to ensure me a front yard of green.
They sprayed on their magic and turned the lawn black,
then called ME a hysterical queen!

I called in the Bug Man to come spray my home,
just slightly; enough to kill roaches.
He hosed the house down with Diazanon Death,
killing all my plants, and my prize loaches.

I spent thirty bucks for some costly perfume
which contained, so they swore, mystic power.
It had some mysterious power, all right,
since my skin came right off in the shower.

I went out to sea in a sportfishing boat
when I visited Dad at the shore.
We caught three dead seagulls, six condoms, a tire,
and a bass without eyeballs, what's more.

The truth of the matter is, like it or not,
all these poisons are kind of a pain.
And if we don't do something pretty darn soon,
we are finished;
and that, friend, is plain.

LW