Hey Beatle Paul, some may call you a controller,
But you were cool, even when pushing a stroller.
Then in seventy-six,
You tried bird-dogging the chicks
And they thought you were a Bay City Roller.

A smartass with a hair dryer
Your eclectic scholarly quips we admire.
Your conservative views may now sound strange
But they aren’t the only noticeable change,
Your mullet’s been replaced by a spare tire.

Those years laying pipe in that Hollywood Home
Kept your legend intact and your mullet fully grown.
Then you took it too far,
Alas, your shame a deep scar
When you gave the Olsen Twins the bone.

Can a woman have a mullet, yes unless they’re a nun
Yes they sure can, even when it’s just for fun.
But we knew she was sick
When she turned a foul trick
And slipped Greg Brady the tongue.

Like nails on a chalkboard, his voice so strained
Can impair your hearing in a one-mile range.
Combined with those locks
Flowing down to his socks,
Mike Bolton defines the word strange.

Those slow ballads he sang, the kit and caboodle
His music always sounded like a really wet noodle.
In his pictures you see,
Those blow-dried locks flowing free,
And he looked like a full-grown French Poodle.

There was a time when this tennis-playing mule,
Looked mostly like a goddamned fool.
All his hair is now gone
But at the break of each dawn,
He sometimes finds tennis balls packed in his stool.

Just a character in a movie, most definitely not rich
But he pulled it all off without even a glitch.
David Spade was his name,
Fleeting was his fame,
A pale, mullet-wearing summummabitch.

Braveheart, The Patriot, Lethal Weapons too,
There was no wrong that he could do.
A great friend was he,
To either you or to me,
Unless one of us happened to be a Jew.

The mullet of all mullets, Billy Ray’s hair dryly
Was worshipped by rednecks most highly.
We forgave his lack of smarts,
Even Achy Breaky Heart,
Till he inflicted on us, daughter Miley.