Son Of Kong
Well listen everybody stop putting me down,
(aooh papa doo papa doo papa doo),
‘Cos I aint the type to tear up this town,
All your talking makes me paranoid,
Ill end up on the couch with Mr. Sigmund freud.
You got me wrong , you got me wrong,
You got me wrong ‘cos i’m the son of Kong.
I don’t want to climb up a hundred floors,
And I don’t want to wrestle with no dinosaurs,
I’d like a career in my new nation,
Get a good job and some ed-u-macation.
Palm tree, rope swings, prehistoric beasts,
I can get by without all of these,
Head-hunting cannibals hang from trees,
I’ll let the big apple set me free.
I’ve been to anger management and I can get by,
Don’t need to punch airplanes outta the sky,
But I can cut loose on a Saturday,
And do the watusi with ol’ Fay Wray