Smack My Bitch Up

Change my pitch up, smack my bitch up
I said, change my pitch up, smack my bitch up

Thank you ladies and gentlemen
I'd like to introduce a little thing I like to call the band
Let's start with the man behind the piano
He's a maestro, a master, a man of many melodies
Including the Melody who's the hostess of the Daily Grill
If you lose your keys, he can find them
He's a prodigy, as in psychosomatic-addict insane
He's sitting on his stool, Bobby Ricotta

Thank you, Bobby
And now on bass, he's high-strung
He's a stand-up guy, he's in an upright and locked position
He knows the basic programming language
He's the low man on the totem pole
He's Deep Gordon Brie

Danke, Gordon
And now on drums, on skins, on the trap-set
The cocktail kit, the thing you that you hit with the thingies
He's a slick click to pick with a stick
He's back with another one of them block-rockin' beats
His middle name is Tom
He's "cymbal-ic," we're talking "brush with greatness"
He likes to bang the drum slowly if you know what I mean, and I think you do
Am I right, pepole
Mr. Bobby Gouda

Change my pitch up, smack my bitch up
Change my pitch up, smack, bitch, up
Whoa, whoa
Whoa, whoa
Change my pitch up, smack my bitch up
Change my pitch up, smack my bitch up

Ouch!