So, what’s the point?
No, I’m asking you
what is the point?
Why would you stand up
Before an uncertain crowd
behind that thin mic stand
armed with only a piece of paper
and just a few words?
When Uncle Donald felt fine
Everything he said rhymed
Every single time
Line for line
Sublime
Limousine riding
Jet plane flying
Cadillac driving
Six foot five
Full of jive
So alive.
That’s what Uncle Donald said
But now, Uncle Donald’s dead.
So, you tell me.
What’s the point?
What is the point?
You tell me.
