Stars, they're not covering Gus
He don't glitter on demand

He's without a cute mug that we'd kissy-poo
And he's real unlikely to have a girlfriend

The dead are spinning up a treat underground
When he casts romancing proposals around
And yeah, I think that he's past his prime

Cause he's not so tall, his head it attains to two foot five
And the peeps on his bill of fare are way oversized

But he's not to blame, that their throats are too high
He's shorter than pint-size, he's gonna bite their thighs

Ooh, oh, oh
Ooh, oh, oh oh

Ooh, oh, oh
Ooh, oh, oh oh

Bite their thighs

Moos and peeps, he must choose
He will dine, too
Gnus and sheeps, they will ooze
No swill wine

The dead are gleaming like effete courtesans
While his pants are steaming, and so are his glands
And yeah, I think he just gored a mime

Cause he's awful bald, his head it retains shoe-level shine
And the sheeple he'd like to gnaw just won't stay reclined

Cause he's kinda lame, and their throats are too high
Cause he's dimmer than twilight, he's gonna bite their thighs

Ooh, oh, oh
Ooh, oh, oh oh
Ooh, oh, oh
Ooh, oh, oh oh

Bite their thighs