Lonesome Bulldog Butthole Surfers

Get along lonesome bulldog
It's turning to spring
Get along lonesome bulldog
It's that time again
Though it's raining, stop complaining
There's a long road to bear
Get along lonesome bulldog
Get along over there
Get along lonesome bulldog in spring

(spoken) Well, Mohatma Ghandi was a little spindly-bottomed raggedy-headed boy that grew up in a Western Kentucky village called Johnstonville, in Harrison County, and there he grew up. His mother was a white woman. His father was a Rastafarian who refused to buy the family seafood on their outings. And there he developed a taste for convertibles, blonde-haired women. And he had a big old long Indian dick. So get along. Get along, little Mohatma Ghandi in the spring

Get along lonesome bulldog
While there's snow on the ground
Get along lonesome bulldog
Where you'll never be found
In the mornin', without warnin'
And there's no food to share
Get along lonesome bulldog
Get along over there
Get along lonesome bulldog in spring

(spoken) Well, pretty soon little Mohatma Ghandi was going three hundred miles an hour. And I'll tell you what. He was going three hundred miles an hour because his strangely turbocharged penis head was making him do it that way. Just kidding, Mohatma Ghandi had a tremendous career in high school, in college, and in law school, and in the House of Representatives. There he found himself as a presidential candidate. He met up with Mary Jo Kopechne and across the Chappaquiddick bridge they did ride. So get along, little Mohatma Ghandi, get along in the spring