October 28, 2002
I can’t begin to tell you,
this story I have to tell.
I can’t begin to tell you,
’bout my trip down to hell.
Life used to be easy,
had food and master to play.
Wouldn’t have been able to tell you,
I was about to be betrayed.
My master bought an AIBO,
brought it home to dwell.
My master bought an AIBO,
It yaps, “You’ve got mail.”
I am so unhappy,
good times have gone away.
If I had thumbs instead of paws,
I’d blow my brains away.
It ain’t no foxy daschund,
It ain’t no poodle to nail,
coulda been a brutha,
or a piece of ass to rail.
I’m so sad and lonely,
listening to its sounds.
And when I try to play with him,
I only knock it down.
My master bought this AIBO.
SONY go to hell!
Why did you make this thing?
My GOD! “You’ve got mail?”
Why did my master forsake me?
Good times have gone away.
If I had hands instead of paws,
I’d blow that AIBO away.
It can’t crap in the basement,
it can’t even lick it’s crotch.
It can’t taste no ALPO,
Or drink the master’s scotch.