That fife--really not making my day,
The thing is so high and shrill,
So please don't play.
No, don't blow that martial-music tune;
I will blow my top; oh, please stop real soon.

I said, that fife, I think you're gonna split the seams,
'Cause you overblow it. . .
Overtone bad dreams.
I'm begging you to put it down,
Or fife will be hurled, dripping spit,
To the ground.

'Cause when you play it, you spray it,
My face hit with stray spit--
A pox on that thing.
You play up, play down,
You're sharp, then you're flat,
When you are blowing.
Put it back on the shelf,
That is its rightful place
The pitch is screwed up;
It's a Bb disgrace.

That fife,
That fife, why'd you ever buy it?
Think of quittin' it, baby,
All the parts are too high to hit.
And every time that you
Give those high notes a try,
The damn sound waves make big birds
Drop from the sky.

And when you play it, you spray it,
Belay it, I'm prayin'--
Spawn of hell's king.
You play up, play down,
You're sharp, then you're flat
When you are blowin.
Put it back on the shelf,
That is its rightful place
Or I'll pick hell's thing up,
Stick it in a dark place.

That fife,
That fife, why'd you ever buy it?
The sound is an eardrum-cutting rout;
I will have to pry it
From your hands and then swing it
Over my head high,
Kinda like a hammer-thrower
And then let it fly.
Bye, bye!