This here song is a nightmare, like a fish hook to herrings
So excuse one quick second while I get my bearings
I’ll just ignore your aghast face staring
As I chant about a guy whom I’m way beyond caring
I’m not talkin’ ‘bout a rapper who goes on ranting
No, this poem’s in its own zone, so listen up here
His name is Gordon, child, and Sumner’s his last name out
And his music’s so bad, even my dog’s flippin’ out!
I used to think he was rad, jumped the shark no doubt
So if I ever hear him again, I’ll throw my stereo out
His songs are wack; his jazz is so limp and slack
Yes sir Jack, he’s walked far from rock to crap
His baggy pants and rags that he bought from The Gap
I’m so bothered with him; send him to Iraq!
His purple prose, his style of lit is all foam
Police was so cool, but he let his artistry go

(Come on!) Sting’s goofy now (Sting!)
Sting’s pretty weird (Stinkin’!)
Sting makes me laugh then cry in my beer
Sting, holy cow! What’s up today?
Maybe tomorrow some good songs will come your way

New wave reggae was the thing; The Police, they were the masters
In the world of pop music, they were plaster casters
Funny, but one day, Sting just went lowly
He had no fun—mopey—consulted Jung, yeah, homie!
He had to quit the band before it was too late
Andy Summers and Stewart Copeland accepted fate
Still made the grade, ‘though adverse to their mate
Now the press would hang onto every statement Sting’d make
He did perplex us, said a solo band was happenin’
Now how the heck did he say he got his group comin’ in?
From dreaming ‘bout turtles who were blue and dancin’?!
Now to our misfortune, his new tunes suckin’ ass!

So many critics vilify him, journalists can’t discern him
Fans turn on him, but marketers still want a bit of him
He got some cash with “Desert Rose” he had
He went and sold his soul for the Jaguar ad!
Hey, maybe next, Sting, you can sponsor your next tour with Dannon
‘Cause it’s true tunes of yours are yogurt, yah Mon!
When songs of yours comes on the air all staticky
That’s when I turn my radio off so quickly
But soccer moms still listen to you religiously!
They all want his CDs, not Police—that nauseates me!
Be Still My Beating Heart, but your Tantricks disgust me
Why don’t you play a game of tennis and use that extra energy?
Lyrics so poetical, and the music all so dismal, and it’s so pitiful
How the heck can I protect my little boy?
Destroy it, bomb it, in toto
Save us, me and you, and do the Russians love their children, too?

(C’mon!) Sting’s on the prowl (Sting!) Sting’s pretty weird
Sting is a nut job, Sting gives me fear
Sting’s like a cow, not more to say
Starting tomorrow, melting all his CDs away!

So say hey, Gordon, can I talk to you?
Do you have your own pet gnu, or a cockatoo?
Do you eat Spam; do run around the house in the nude?
Do you perhaps load gobs of peanut butter on your food?
Now here’s something new, play your lute against old missals?
Next why don’t you play old drinking songs on tin whistles?
Just kiddin’! Yes I know that these petty gunwales
Are entertainments that will not be affecting your sales
But please, will you explain this, why’s your act so full of yourself?
You keep complainin’ so you’ll get your check in the mail
It’s funny ain’t it, how you had come from public school teachin’
And come up to a place where you are basically all grumpin’?
That’s why I sing out now, “O Death, here is thy Sting!
He’s posing in his jeans for GQ Magazine!”
Yes, and All This Time the river still flows
And the priests and the old men walk among the Fields Of Gold
And even After The Rain has fallen I still cry
We Work The Black Seam Together, fixin’ to die
Just gimme an old record like Outlandos D’Amour
I’m sorry, dear Sting; I don’t like your songs no more
That’s you Sting, at the moment; in the eyes of this beholder
Love it or lump it, as all the yuppies all get older
Just maybe they’ll admit that what they bought
Was limp jazz/lite rock with the lyrics so overwrought!

Sting’s off the bough (Sting!) Sting is so weird (Freaking it!)
Sting the songwriter whose Cliffs Notes are dear (Oh man!)
Sting whips it out, his ego, today
Nothing Like The Sun, oh good Lord, please take it away!
Sting, buh-bye now, Sting hurts my ear
Sting’s in the crapper; Sting, grow a beard!
Sting’s working now, I just heard today
Who would a thought that The Police would come back our way?