They've got me parked on a gurney.
I've never felt worse in my life.
I ate plant life, birds, and rockfish, things
That were billed as fit for kings.
The first thing I ate was lightly fried because
I'm keeping off the pounds.
The buns were hot and the wine was dry,
Better fare could not be found.

CHORUS:
It wasn't the desert; the main course caused ptomaine.
It smelled good, but it made my gut rain.
In the desert was rum-soaked fruit all aflame,
But the tainted entrée caused me so much pain.
Argh, argh. . . .

After two sprays and a bout of runs,
My face began to turn red.
After three sprays, this was much less than fun.
I just wanted to get into bed.
But my stomach still rolled, and the river still flowed,
And I wished then that I was dead.

CHORUS

After nine sprays, I'd set the main course free.
The desert long ago left me,
As did plant life, birds, and rockfish, things
That were billed as fit for kings.
My stomach was deserted, I was crouched on the ground,
Paramedics guys set to shove
Me on the gurney; I dropped a fart; one frowned
And he put on his rubber gloves.

CHORUS