There's this subconscious school of thought we've bought,
A casual collection of stylized lies
Wrapped in smooth, suave, crapulent, crinkly paper.
We've purchased peddled peer-pressure prescription pills
And swallowed them whole. Deep in our souls we are
Governed and guided, despotically directed
By the rule of the cool.
That clever clandestine control of emotion,
Faithful devotion to, I've got it altogether.
We spray it in our hair,
Wear it as our clothes,
Breathe it down our nose on rows of insecure masses,
Wearing cool colored glasses, control top pantyhose,
Hold that pose!
Don't let your dorkdom show!
Go with the flow, mooove with the groove
You gotta be fluid and graceful, baby.
It is art,
Practiced and rehearsed, like poetic verse,
Never a spontaneously spunky outburst.
But there's a word that will set us all free,
Remove the straightjacket culture clamped tight on our personality,
Forget the fear of the goofy fun fanatics we were made to be.
It's the sound I enjoyed hearing my little tricycle make when I was the age of three... Skrickawocka
By the age of 4 I had discovered that I wasn't cool,
Perched atop my purple and turquoise, pink lettered tricycle
Drooling as all the other kids would come rumbling past,
Pedaling so fast,
Riding the rocket with the ability to transform any American boy into the embodiment of cool,
The real deal of 4 year old consumer appeal,
The Mattel Big Wheel.
But the only sound my tricycle made was…skrigga, skragga, skrickawocka!
Every time its rusty crank turned it squeaked and squealed in pain... skrickawocka!
No matter how fast I pedaled its sound was the same... skrickawocka, skrickawocka, skrickawocka!
I stopped and put my head down, with that uncool sound forever strapped to my name... Skrickawocka.
It wasn't much later when one of the older kids from across the street
Showed up on our front porch with his Red Line BMX bike.
Ooh! If I had a bike like that
I'd be the envy of every fat kid,
The hero of every skinny kid,
The unchallenged paragon of dorky kids everywhere yearning to be cool!
Of course, the bike I got about a year later
Had this powder blue, lunar cowboy landscape painted on its oversized banana seat
That might as well have had a megaphone strapped to it that blasted SKRICKAWOCKA to the entire neighborhood.
So here I am, a fully grown adult making stupid sounds on the mike,
Like when I was a tyke clenched to my trike,
Wishing I could come up with some cool, gritty lyrics
And the only things screeching through my brain are skrigga, skragga, skrugga, skrickawocka!
Well, I guess I just may never fit in
Doomed to make goofy words up out of nothing,
Confounding the wise,
Pedaling underpowered tricycle rims under sunny skies that go skrickawocka, skrickawocka...
Watch the blur of happy feet and the glee exploding from my teeth
As I roll away from a droll, dreary day into the playground sunshine's rays.
The air is my friend, lickin' my face with its slobbery dog-tongue scent
And there's no need to graduate to some cool variety of vehicle
‘Cause I got skrickawocka in my legs to power my 3 wheeled machine,
Sail off into the plans that are bigger than my dreams
Let me hear you scream it with me as I dorkily roll away... Skrickawocka!