Twas the week before Christmas, when all thru the show . . .
Musicians heads were floating, their bodies no mo'
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that some torsos soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
What? You think we want them to see disembodied heads?
And Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my tuque,
Had just settled in and were ready to juke —
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the hi-fi to see what was the matter.
Away to the window, like a bat out of hell,
I grabbed my shotgun and a handful of shells.
The streetlight shown on the rain-slicked blacktop,
Revealing Jackie Gleason's head falling like a raindrop.
AND NOT just his, but Sinatra's, too,
Join Lena Horne's in a floating boogaloo.
Bodyless Webb Pierce yelled
"3 Chords & the Truth!"
And I ran to the hi-fi -- it didn't take a sleuth.
I'd forgotten it was time for the Big Show,
And the famed floating heads were ready to go!
"Now! Frankie, now! Lena, now! Simon and Garfunkel,
"On! Frankie, on! Jackie, mind your carbuncle!
"To the top of the charts! Eschew all your clinkers!
"And we need a band -- disembodied heads got no fingers!"
This may seem strange for a Yuletide regalement,
I guess you can blame that nail-gun impalement.
Be that as it may, tell 'em from Dover to Doha,
It's 3 Chords & the Truth, y'all. Be there. Aloha.