-> "He’s a Pest!"
Original Song Title:
"Be Our Guest"
Parody Song Title:
"He’s a Pest!"
He’s a pest, he’s a pest.
Pudding slurping, room is messed.
Flying napkins hit the deck, ah me!
I am poorly impressed.
Soup he’ll pour
On the floor.
Guy, make-me-livid scourge,
An outré lug.
What my wish is:
That he would sleep with the fishes.
His breath stinks. . .fishy rank
He appalls. . .piss on the tank.
And the shitter is unflushed, as you’ll have guessed. . .
Goes on the floor in men’s room,
Stains on pants in bedroom.
He’s a pest,
He’s a pest.
Pan soufflé. . .
Match is lit, then pants flambé;
In my pear schnapps is his hair.
It’s “gas”stronomy gone astray.
Gnaws a bone,
On the banquette we are aired.
We are gloomy and complaining
As his flat’ fare come a-raining.
No one smokes, or flicks Bics
To light waiting candle wicks
For fear fire will burn and waste
Our rancid fete,
’cause from that rift in ass
Passes flammable gas.
Can’t he arrest
Vents that smelling sense have stressed?
He’s a pest! [3x]
When it’s curry he’ll ingest,
We will pay for that entrée
At it gives way to what’s compressed. . .
Predecessor of poop.
The goon’s too loose—oops! the goop!!
Must retreat now from this dinner!
He licks what’s left off the china,
Such as pork, yams, and veal.
Ghastly scenter, wasted meal.
It ain’t any fun when manners have regressed
To where one shouts an “oink” snort
Then vents for a retort.
Oh, he’s a pest! He’s a pest.
Chicken breast he will wrest
From your plate, and then it’s fressed.
He will gorge, his maw a forge.
I guess you’ve guessed that I suggest:
His moniker starts with P,
Next in line, the letter E;
’twixt R and T, in I’m shoein’
S, which starts name of that bruin
Who warns us about hot
Matches. . .then the forest’s shot.
Now I’ve put some orthography to the test—
Four-letter word ensues;
This mal mot gives the blues.
The word is PEST;
He’s a pest. . . !
Rhin Schwein, he’s unnerving;
He’s a scourge with fingers curving
Into a sole. . .eats like a troll, etiquette gone.
Needless to say, he is tactless, boozeful,
Starting each day at the crack of dawn.
On his cheeks is crusting
(Don’t mean those used for porn thrusting)
Mincemeat—dried-on pies; some lamb juice that did spill.
There’s also traces of Chateaubriand. . .
Ghastly fat that’s crazing,
A glaze appliquéd from grazing.
He’s a pest, he’s a pest
Reprimands, a moot request.
Next there’s fears he’ll slurp a heavy-bodied beer,
What is ingressed
With his meal will release
In a stream tainted with grease.
As this repast fright is blowing
In our helpings; anger’s growing.
Course by course, bunch of chunks
Is it all out? More kerplunks!
He’s a stinking-offal creep who don’t digest.
A blight. We mop his eats up
Then for us retreats sup.
We have messed
Wie* this pest. . .
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