Our song came out yester-New Year’s Eve
(I don’t think we ever took out an ad).
Next summer our drummer said “I gotta leave”
So we broke up real fast and got sorta sad.

Now whenever I’m on the road to Montana
Or coasting to camps still further afield,
Our song’ll beam into the car antenna.
It never fails to make me feel weird.

I was pickin’ my zits in a bar in Hong Kong,
Lookin’ up time to time to make pretty eyes,
But the disc jockey favored our dumb old song
so I never got lucky (but that’s no surprise).

I never paid to hear our tinny voices
on-demand on the Trans-Siberian rail.
Left my cabin so mad that I stole gum from purses
and chewed every stick into one spitball.

In a Bollywood film about Saudi skateboards,
I thought they used our song for the credits,
But ’twas just a rip-off of our not-great chords.
This gettin’ ripped off’s one of our bad habits.

In an Audi commercial starrin’ any old kid,
I heard that Ibanez fret-buzz grind
That means the pre-chorus.
I blew my lid: told anti-jokes to some crone who was blind.

Some crone in Tibet put our song on her phone
And played it whenever she biked up a trail,
On endless repeat while night riding alone,
Til the record skipped and she took quite a spill.

Fifty wasps got my ass in Malaga, Spain,
So I limped to the hospital clutching my booty.
In the waiting room, our song; I winced in pain.
Some kid said it sounded like Death Cab for Cutie.

In the lobby of Luxembourg’s poshest hotel
They did a rendition for chamber quartet.
At the hotel bar I smashed my beer bottle, brandished it lewdly,
and spewed epithet.

I sang “Da da die” cause I lacked a good word.
I’m no chart-topper, and there’s no hit single.
I don’t feel well while that hook may be heard.
West Canadians: won’t you please lay off my jingle?

We did what we could with the tropes that we had.
Broke up, as I said, and got sort of sad.
Why won’t the world notice, and leave us for dead?
Let the path grow over this endless retread!