Band with the Runs

(to the tune of Paul McCartney's "Band on the Run")

Mexican cantina.
Two-for-one burritos.
Drippy chimichangas.
A bartop bowl of Fritos.
Cheap food. Cheap food.

If we ever get out of here
Sixty miles to drive today.
Shitty gig in Galveston.
Cheap promoter, slow to pay.
Awful rumblings in our guts.
Horrible looks on every face.

Then the poor bass player drew a heavy sigh
And we ran into the john.
Pay toilet stalls were all we found
With locks on every one.

Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.

Lead guitar begged the jerk at the bar …
Could you please give us a key?
He shook his head no and raised a Glock.
Son, the road’s the place to be.

Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.

Then the crapper thundered with a mighty crash
When our drummer climbed the stalls.
Our frontman was squatting on the tiny sink.
His ass was next to fall.

Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.

A shit tsunami flooded into the bar.
And the barkeep dropped his gun.
We just kept running, dropped a tip in the jar.
So long, man. It's been fun.

Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.

That Tex-Mex dive. Did not survive.
The band with the runs.

Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.