Dogface

Mr. Dogface thinks he's smart but he really has no heart.
Likes to hear his own loud fart. He calls it music.
Likes to tape musical sound better left floating around.
The song of the local pound, he lays it on real thick.
Why, Dogface, why don't you crawl away and die?
Go straight to hell! May your records roast as well!

Thinks himself a man of taste, looks for talent he can waste,
Someone else to be disgraced for his own profit.
The music from his studio smells like dog doody O!
Dogface thinks its beauty. No! Go and shovel it!
Why, Dogface, why don't you crawl away and die?

Go straight to hell, where the demons dwell!
His music (as a reviewer) should be flushed into the sewer.
Why can't he find something newer than the same old crap?
His work would be a great success if it only would suck less.
Mr. Dogface: Step up! Confess! Give yourself a slap!
Why, Dogface, why don't you crawl away and die?
Go straight to hell with a sulfurous smell!
Dogface! Leave this place! Get out and hide your face!
Go away and leave no trace without a soul to sell!

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Rod Mitchell