Gonna try to crank out a whole lot,
Even if I make it, think my nerves will be shot.
Gonna be up each night till dawn,
Till my ephedra is gone.
Songs are base; lyrics are threadbare.
Got no messages; I don't care.
"Whose idea was this?!" I cry,
99 wretched tunes to try?!"

99 wretched tunes. . .
Try to write for amiright.
Panic wells and my head hurts.
Got tinnitus; I'm hearing bells.
My wife tells me, "Get a life!"
As she stares at my red eyes
After my tenth shot of rye
To help me 99 tunes to ply.

99 decisions; each
One can't be sweet as a peach.
I hurry, eyes blurry, tongue furry
Only two! I start to worry.
When will I make it to four?
20 percent of a score?
Better think up some more lines--
99 wretched tunes to grind.

99 hours--less!--to prepare. . .
Write stupid rhymes, dreck; all-nighters.
I am in a stupor; zero
Inspiration in brain lurks.
Endorphins must intensify,
To get me high; intensely try,
Stop rambling, not go awry,
99 tunes, not let brain fry.

"99 Beers," yes it's sad,
So far, that is my best tune.
If that's the best I can do, it's sh*tty--
Must write a song 'bout a kitty.
I had better get groovin' here,
Or else pop another beer,
Write another wretched tune
I hope that the next one won't blow.