Life in the Slaw Lane

by Biff Manard and Kip Adotta

The title track from one of Kip Adotta's albums. I just couldn't find a link to this on the 'net, so I transcribed it myself. The idea is to give Kip and Biff some recognition for this great work of art, and encourage folks to go out and buy Kip's stuff, that is, if he doesn't mind. Because seeing the words can't compare to hearing the song in its glorious entirety. Thank you for your support.

It was cucumber the 1st. Summer was over. I had just finished a long day and I was busheled. I'm the kind of guy that works hard for his celery, and I don't mind telling you I was feeling a bit wilted. But I didn't carrot all. 'Cause otherwise, things were vine. I try never to disparagus, and I don't sweat the truffles. I'm outstanding in my field and I know that something good will turnip eventually. A bunch of things were going grape, and soon I'd be top banana. At least that's my peeling. But that's enough corn. Lend me your ear and let this continue. After dressing, I stalked over to the grain station. I got there just in lime to catch the nine a-lemon as it plowed towards the core of Appleton, a lentil more than a melon and a half yeast of Cloveland.

Chorus:
Life in the slaw lane
They say plants can't feel no pain.
Life in the slaw lane
I've got news for you, they're just as frail as you.

No one got off at Zucchini so we continued on our rutabaga. Passing my usual stop, I got avocado. I hailed a passing yellow cabbage and grassed the driver to cart me off to Broccolyn. I was going to meet my brother across from the eggplant, where he had a job at the saffron station, pumpkin gas. As soon as I saw his face, I knew he was in a yam. He told me his wife had been raising cane. Her name was Peaches, a soiled but radishing beauty with huge gourds. My brother had always been a chestnut, but I could never figure out why she picked him. He was a skinny little string bean who'd always suffered from cerebral parsley. It was in our roots. Sure, we had tried to weed it out, but the problem still romained. He was used to having a tough row to hoe, but it irrigated me to see Artie choke. And it bothered my brother to see his marriage go to seed.

Repeat Chorus

Like most mapled couples, they had a lot of growing to do. Sure they'd sown their wild oats, but just barley, if you peas. Finally Peaches had given him an ultomato. She said, "I'm hip to your chive, and if you don't stop smoking that herb, I'm going to leaf you for Basil, you fruit." He said he didn't realize it had kumquat so far. Onion other hand, even though Peaches could be the pits, I knew she'd never call the fuzz.

Repeat Chorus

So I said, "Hey, we're not farm from the Mushroom; let's walk over. He said, "That's a very rice place. That's the same little bar where alfalfa my wife." When we got there I pulled up a cherry and tried to produce small talk. I told him I hadn't seen Olive, not since I'd shelled out for a trip to Macadamia, when I told her we cantelope; the thyme just wasn't ripe. She knew what I mint. When we left the mushroom we were pretty well juiced. I told Artie to say hello to the boysenberry, and that I'd orange to see him another thyme. Well, it all came out in the morning peppers. Artie'd caught Peaches that night with Basil, and Artie beet Basil bad, leaving him with two beautiful acres. Peaches? She was found in the garden. She'd been pruned.

Repeat Chorus

Well, my little story is ocra now. Maybe it's small potatoes. Me? Idaho. My name? Wheat. My friends call me Colonel. That's life in the slaw lane. Thank you... so mulch. It's a garden out there.