Bucket Boy

Music by Rob Griffin, lyrics by Larry Nybo

I am the bucket boy.
Poking fun at me,
Yea, they do it all the time,
Fuels! and gives the others a considerable amount of great joy.
I have no friends.
I get all the bad jobs.
My hammock is broken.
I have nowhere to go.

One reason they call me the bucket boy,
Is because they make me do things, cleaning, with buckets.
But the real reason they call me the bucket boy,
Is because I hide, and put a bucket on my head,
And disappear, and escape, to a place,
Where I think about things like,

Squeezing juice from citrus fruits,
And tiny hairs on tubers roots
And watching bugs in little holes,
And find and counting all my moles,
And pouring water in a cup,
To see how high I get it up.
And rubbing cloth in one direction,
Drawing pictures with your finger.
Pulsing my ears with my fingers,
Listening to how it sounds.
Look at bright things,
Then closing your eyes,
To see the resulting spot.

I am the bucket boy.
They got mad at me one time,
Because I let go of the rope,
When the wind was blowing real hard,
And smoke started coming out of the pulley.
They tell me my pants,
Look like a sea-horse,
When I’m working,
And bend down,
To pick things up.

So I just run,
And I just hide,
And I just hope I don’t get found,
So I can put a bucket on my head,
And think about things like,

Sticking my tongue in the wind,
So it will dry and feel real strange.
And watching frogs’ throats when they breath,
And people’s lips around their teeth.
And sticky syrup on my fingers,
Even when I use a fork.
And standing on my head and looking,
At people’s mouths while they speak.
Pealing oranges in one peel,
And getting juice squirt in the eye.
I really don’t think it much sounds,
Like the ocean in big conch shells.

Hey bucket boy, swab the deck!

I am the bucket boy.
You are the bucket boy.

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